Ne Cede Malis
by Two D's
Summary: What does Trip do when Malcolm is injured and sent back to Earth, perhaps forever? Can a friendship survive lightyears? A jointfic by volley and HoVis. Please R and R! COMPLETE.
1. Chapter One

**A/N:** Hello all! "Two D's" is the joint pen-name of volley and HoVis, two keen Enterprise writers. We both hope you enjoy the following fic – a little exploration of how our two favourite characters (Trip and Malcolm, of course!) would cope if one, after an accident, was forced to return to Earth for treatment whilst the other remained on Enterprise. The nature of the accident, and the outcome of the treatment, we leave for the following chapters to reveal...

**Disclaimer:** We own nothing but the plot, though if we DID own Enterprise it would certainly still be on air, and "These Are the Voyages" would certainly never have been produced.

**Prologue**

It was on a Tuesday that the bottom fell out of Malcolm Reed's world.

The away mission had seemed simple enough at the outset – he hadn't even felt the need to take no more than a single MACO for security back-up. It was a decision he would come to regret...

The alien planet had been beautiful; so beautiful, in fact, that for a moment Malcolm forgot himself, and forgot to be constantly on his guard as a good armoury officer should. He even shared a joke with the MACO.

He had allowed the away team to become split up, a thing he should never have done. The Captain, T'Pol and the MACO had gone one way to meet with the planet dignitaries, while he and Trip were taken to be shown round the complex. The different buildings were joined together by footbridges, perhaps ten feet off the concrete-hard ground. There was a disturbance in one of the courtyards – the alien showing them round had looked nervous, and muttered of insurgents and protests against government policy.

Then, as they were on the verge of crossing a bridge into the main complex – the guide said it was better protected – warning shots began to be fired. A stray shot hit the wooden bridge onto which the group had just stepped, and Malcolm only just had time to push the other two back when the bridge disintegrated beneath his feet and he tumbled down to the ground.

He hit the ground, back first, with a low thud. He screamed as pain shot through his body, and the last thing he knew before his world went black was Trip shouting his name.

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**Chapter One**

Phlox emerged from the enclosed space around the only occupied bed in sickbay and drew the curtain closed again with a screeching sound that made Archer wince. The usually cheerful doctor had a grim expression on his face, such, in fact, as the Captain had rarely seen. Archer steeled against what must undoubtedly be bad news.

"Doc?" he asked hoarsely, as the Denobulan approached.

"Mr. Reed's injuries are very serious, Captain," Phlox said, without preamble. "The fall has damaged his spinal cord."

Archer felt his insides clench. "Are you saying he is permanently paralysed?" he forced himself to ask.

Phlox sighed, and shook his head. "He can move, but not well. He needs to undergo some very delicate surgery. With an injury of this severity, however, there is approximately a 50 success rate; and it's definitely not an operation that can be performed here on Enterprise," he said gloomily.

Archer swallowed hard. He opened his mouth to say something, but no words came out.

"The quicker you can get him back to Earth, the better," Phlox added. "To have a chance of success, this kind of operation is best performed as soon as possible."

"Understood," Archer murmured. He drew a deep breath and made an effort to pull himself together. Malcolm needed his Captain right now, not the jellyfish he felt like at the moment. "I'll contact Starfleet Command right away," he said, his voice a lot stronger. "Is he conscious?" he asked.

"He's sedated, but should be awake within half an hour. Captain, I think it would be a good idea if Mr. Reed had a friend at his side when he wakes up. As you can imagine, it's not going to be a pleasant reawakening," Phlox said, his intense blue eyes showing concern. "I'll be there should any emergency arise; but I am quite certain he would rather find another human with him."

"Of course," Archer immediately agreed. "I'll…" he faltered. Much as he wanted to be near his Armoury Officer at such a crucial moment, Archer knew his presence would only serve to make Malcolm uncomfortable. There was trust and loyalty, and by now even friendship between the two of them; but given Reed's military upbringing there would always be some distance, and Archer knew he could never hope for Malcolm to show him the camaraderie he had gradually built up with Trip. Trip was the best person for giving Reed moral support, Archer thought. It would be hard, for both of them, but the engineer was the closest friend Reed had on Enterprise.

"I'll inform Commander Tucker and send him here," Archer eventually said. Phlox nodded his agreement and the Captain left sickbay.

§§§

Trip sat at Malcolm's bedside, watching his friend's immobile form. The Lieutenant looked peacefully asleep, his breathing slow and even, and his face, which was slightly turned his way, relaxed. It was hard to believe that Malcolm was barely able to move and had suffered injuries so severe he would have to return to Earth for treatment.

Trip shut his eyes at the thought, and the ominous thud of Reed hitting the ground and his scream of pain echoed in his mind for the umpteenth time, making him nauseous. He felt totally numb. What was he supposed to tell Malcolm when he awoke? 'Thank you for pushin' me out of danger – oh, and by the way, sorry, but there is a chance you may spend the rest of your life in a wheelchair'?

Trip bent forward, leaning his elbows on his knees and burying his face in his hands. _He's not in a wheelchair yet_, he reminded himself. _Malcolm is tough, he'll get through this._ But deep down he knew there was little his friend could do; it was all up to the surgery he was soon – _hopefully soon _- to undergo.

"Trip?..."

Trip jumped a mile at the unexpected, croaking sound of Malcolm's voice. He jerked his face up and found his friend's eyes on him.

Malcolm blinked a couple of times and his mouth turned up in a small smile. "You're easily frightened, Commander," he joked weakly. "I'm not a ghost yet, it seems."

"I… just didn't expect you to wake up so soon," Trip replied, averting his gaze. He was sure Malcolm would read the worry in it, and he didn't want to. Not just yet.

"How are you feelin'," he asked, more because it was expected of him than because he wanted to know. In fact he didn't. He wanted to wake up and find that this was only a bad dream. Malcolm didn't reply immediately, which forced Trip to look at him. His friend appeared a bit dazed. No doubt a side effect of the drugs Phlox had him on.

"I'm fine," Reed finally murmured. "What happened? We were crossing a bridge… I can't quite remember," he breathed out tiredly, as his eyes drooped closed again.

"There was some shootin'," Trip replied, keeping his voice steady by sheer force of willpower. "You pushed our guide and me to safety, and then…" his voice began to waver and he fell silent and clenched his jaw. He stole a glance at Malcolm and saw that he had opened his eyes again and was studying him. Then suddenly his friend's gaze showed realisation; his eyes filled with fear, and his breathing became shallow and ragged. Trip instinctively reached out to grab his arm.

"I can hardly move," Malcolm choked out. "Am I…" he couldn't finish the question and Trip saw him swallow hard, undoubtedly past a painful lump similar to that which was in his own throat.

"You suffered damage to your spinal cord, Malcolm," Trip managed after a moment. He saw Malcolm squeeze his eyes shut. "The Doc says you'll have to go to Earth to undergo surgery," he added, trying to sound reassuring and failing miserably.

"Am I going to be alright?" Malcolm asked softly.

"The Capt'n is arrangin' for a Vulcan ship to come and…"

"Trip, am I going to be alright?" Malcolm asked again, his voice taut.

Trip heaved a calming breath and forced himself to meet Reed's wide, grey eyes. It was difficult to look into them and say what he had to say, but he owed his friend big. The last thing he wanted to do was deceive him.

"Doc says it's a 50/50 chance," he murmured, and saw anguish paint itself on Malcolm's face. His friend turned his head painfully and much too slowly the other way, and Trip tightened his grip on his friend's arm. "I'm sorry," he mumbled, feeling stupid.

They remained like that, in the silence interrupted only by Reed's breathing, for what seemed like ages, both at a loss for words.

"If you hadn't taken the time to push us out of the way…" Trip eventually said, his voice hoarse with regret.

Malcolm's breathing accelerated. "Don't say that," he murmured. "I'm glad I did," he added after a moment, his voice growing weaker. "It was my duty. The one thing that would make this even harder to bear would be to know that I had failed my duty," he concluded so softly that Trip had to bend an ear to hear the words.

There was another long pause.

"Will I – have to leave Starfleet?" Malcolm asked eventually, his voice betraying his insecurity.

"You'll be fine, Malcolm," Trip said, avoiding the question that he both did not want and did not know how to answer. "We must think positively," he added resolutely.

With an effort, Malcolm turned again to meet his gaze. "Happy ending?" he choked out, and his eyes twinkled suspiciously with unshed tears in the dim light of sickbay.

"Yeah, happy endin'," Trip repeated with conviction, feeling his own eyes dangerously close to overflow.

There was a rustling sound as the curtain was drawn and Phlox appeared. He gave Reed a half smile that held no cheerfulness. "Lieutenant," he said. "I'll be, ah… happy to explain your condition in detail."

Trip got his cue and rose to his feet. He squeezed Malcolm's arm one last time. "I'll come back later," he said.

Malcolm nodded. "Thank you," he replied with feeling.

As he triggered the sickbay's doors open, Trip's heart was heavy with worry.

888

"Lieutenant." Malcolm looked up at the sound of the Captain's voice, but even as he did he was aware of how slow the movement was, and how painful it felt. He was seated upon the bio-bed, but even the small movement from lying down to sitting up had exhausted him. What had Phlox said? _Constriction of the spinal cord... surgery... physiotherapy... hope of eventual recovery..._ But Malcolm didn't want hope, and he didn't want words that didn't even register upon his mind – all he wanted was something, an assurance that would alleviate the three words which were beating a tattoo in his mind: _unfit for duty_.

"Captain." Malcolm greeted the other man, moving his eyes to follow Archer's path as he began to pace, for he found that to move his neck would be far to slow. Malcolm felt a low growl of frustration growing within him. Archer must have noticed his discomfort, for he stopped pacing and moved to stand in front of Reed.

"Lieutenant," he said. "I'm afraid I have some... bad news."

Reed closed his eyes. At any other time he would have been tempted to ask: 'what, worse than that I've already received?', but not now. _Unfit for duty_. His hand began to shake of its own accord, and he opened his eyes to stare at it, but try as he might he could not still the shaking. He felt like an old man – old before his time – and it terrified him.

"Go on, sir." He said hoarsely. Even his voice sounded aged.

Archer sighed.

"The Vulcan ship will be here in a few days. When you get back to Earth, I'm afraid that Starfleet will have to issue you with a formal medical discharge. If -" Archer faltered, and took a deep breath. Malcolm needed him to be strong, to give him hope. "_When_ you recover, you can re-apply. I... I'm sorry."

"It's alright, sir." Reed said, swallowing and biting his lip in an effort not to break down in front of his superior officer. Hoshi and Travis had visited him, not long after Trip had left him, with false smiles and hopeful words that Malcolm knew they hadn't really believed. "I – I know the rules. It's for the best. I understand."

Archer nodded wordlessly, and left. Malcolm watched him go, the words _unfit for_ _duty_ echoing once more in his mind. Through the glass sickbay doors, and from his vantage-point upon the bio-bed, he saw Archer pause to speak with a blonde-haired someone in the corridor, and he lowered his head, summoning all of his strength. He could not break down – not even in front of Trip.

He felt the cold mask slip on, and he sighed.

_Unfit for duty_.

The sickbay doors _whooshed_ open, and Trip entered, his expression grey.

888

Malcolm was to be discharged from Starfleet. Trip could think of a whole host of colourful adjectives for the pen-pushers who had decided such a thing, but he held his tongue. He wondered how Malcolm was taking the news, but the man's eyes were expressionless as he looked up from the bio-bed.

"Trip." He said, and Trip swallowed at the cool tone in the man's voice. Malcolm was seated on the side of the bed, his feet not quite touching the floor. He was scarcely moving.

"Hey, Mal." Trip – ever the optimist – did his best to force some cheer into his voice as he crossed over and sat opposite the armoury officer. "So – you okay?"

_Damn_. He thought, mentally kicking himself. Of course the man wasn't 'okay'. But Reed's lips quirked up, just for a moment.

"Fine." He said. Trip rolled his eyes, playing along with the lie.

"Sure, you'd be 'fine' if a darn cowboy tied you to the tracks of an oncoming railway train."

"You watch too many Westerns, Trip." Malcolm commented, and silence fell in sickbay. Trip shuffled uncomfortably.

"So what're you gonna do?" He asked. "Back on Earth?" Malcolm turned his head, avoiding the question, but the movement was slow and painful.

"How should I know?" He said. "Some sort of treatment – surgery, therapy."

"That's not what I meant." Trip leant forward so he could meet Malcolm's gaze. "An' you know it. Where're you going to _stay_?"

This time Malcolm could not avoid the clear blue gaze.

"I don't know." He said eventually. "Phlox seems to think that I won't be able to look after myself."

Now it was Trip's turn to look away, to avoid the humiliation in his friend's eyes.

"What about your family? Your parents, in Malaysia?" He asked softly. "Can't they help?"

Malcolm let out a low laugh which held no humour.

"I doubt it. And they don't live in Malaysia anymore. My mother had an – illness. She preferred to be closer to Madeline in case..."

"You never told me." Trip said, trying to keep the accusation from his voice. He pushed this away, his thoughts now entirely centred on distracting his friend from his plight. "So – she better now?" _Yeah,_ he thought, slightly bitterly, _it'd be just like Malcolm to have one of his parents die and not tell his friends. Stubborn, independent so-and-so..._

Malcolm, apparently unaware of Trip's somewhat ungenerous thoughts, nodded slowly.

"Much better." He said, and then in a softer tone: "Better than I, at any rate." Then the moment passed, and Trip watched as the cold, austere veil slipped once more over the grey eyes. He made one last attempt.

"Then it's perfect! You'll be able to have the operation in England, and your family can look after you!"

Before the 'accident', Malcolm's head would have jerked up at such a suggestion, but as it was he had to make do with a slow shake of his head. He clenched his jaw.

"I am not – I will not be a liability." He stated firmly, before turning, ever-so-slowly, onto his side, obviously intent on escaping the conversation in the dark arms of sleep. Trip watched his struggle with the covers, wanting desperately to help but knowing that the only thing his friend had left – his dignity – would not stand being tucked in bed by a superior officer. So he stood still and held his tongue.

After a few minutes Malcolm's ragged and painful breathing slowed, and Trip knew he was asleep.

"But ain' that what family's for, Mal?" He asked the sleeping man. "To carry you when you can't walk yourself?"

888

Trip knew what he was doing was reckless, but at that moment he did not much care. He tapped his fingers impatiently as the computer connected him to Malaysia, not wanting to have the time to think about his actions. A moment later the screen blinked, and he found himself staring into a pair of eyes he knew so well.

"Jeez," he said softly, and the grey eyes flickered in irritation.

"Yes?" a clipped, British voice filtered through the speakers. "Who is this?"

Trip cleared his throat, disconcerted at the sight of those familiar eyes staring out at him from the old, weather-beaten face he saw on the monitor.

"Uh, Mr Reed, I'm Commander Charles Tucker, I'm a colleague of ---"

"Of my son's?" Stuart Reed cut him off, and Trip was certain that for a moment a flicker of apprehension had crossed the impassive face.

Trip nodded slowly. "There's been an accident. Malcolm's been ---" But once more, he got no further than half-way through his sentence.

"Killed." Stuart Reed finished harshly. Regret, anger, and sadness – a kaleidoscope of emotions that Trip knew such a man would never usually show, entered the storm-grey eyes.

"No!" Trip hastened to say, realising what a fool he had been. Of course that was what Malcolm's father would think, what _any_ parent would think. "I'm sorry. I – he's not dead. Just... injured."

Trip watched as the man let out a visible sigh of relief. "Thank God," The elder Reed murmured, ever-so-softly.

Trip hesitated, hating to ruin the man's relief with the news of just how serious Malcolm's injuries were. "He'll be given a medical discharge from Starfleet," he said eventually, and watched as something wordless flickered through those grey depths. It seemed almost like triumph, but a lot more like sadness.

There was silence for a moment, before the older man asked, "Why could he not tell me this himself?"

Trip gave a brief smile at the blunt, abrupt question, and realised suddenly that Malcolm was almost the epitomy of the phrase "chip off the old block". Strange. His smile faded slightly as he met the grey eyes on the screen.

"You know him, Mr Reed, and he's stubborn as a mule." Trip grimaced. "An' I don't care why he hasn't contacted home for the last five years – but he needs his family now."

Stuart Reed nodded, and the grey eyes held no hesitation as he answered, "We'll shoulder his burden." He nodded one last time, and the screen flicked off.

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**A/N:** Please review! They make us very, very happy!


	2. Chapter Two

**A/N:** Hello again! Thanks to all our readers for their kind reviews, and a few particular responses:

**Romanse:** Good point! We were a bit over-hasty, I suppose. Our only excuse is that speed was of the essence, according to Phlox, in terms of Malcolm's treatment, and that Starfleet discharged him on the basis that _if_ he got better he would be able to return. Hmm. Or you could just ignore the writers and hope things slow down from here on in! Many thanks for your review.

**RoaringMice:** Oh dear. We seem to have an over-abundance of reviewers who are cleverer than us! We vaguely thought that if something had damaged, but not actually broken, his spinal cord, it would restrict (and also make painful) rather than totally cut off movements. Maybe a combination of the fall and the alien plasma weapon? Thanks for your review – I hope you can bear with us and alleviate reality for a time!

**IcthusFish:** HoVis claims responsibility for that little blunder! Whoops – and well noted. Malcolm's parents _are_ in England, mainly because we didn't want to have to write about him going to hospital in Malaysia... that would have really confused us! Thanks for your review.

Thanks also to **Boleyn**, **pawpad**, **firebirdgirl**, **ILoveObi-Wan**, **Begoogled**, **Jadiza-Kathryn** and **Sirnonenath** (interesting name!).

By the way, since a couple of people asked, the title of the story, "**Ne Cede Malis**", means "**yield not to misfortune**". What do you think? We thought it was quite apt.

**Anyway**, chapter two – enjoy!

**Chapter Two**

"Lieutenant Malcolm Gregory requesting permission to come on board and reporting for duty, Sir."

"Permission granted. Welcome aboard, Lieutenant," Archer replied, flinching ever so slightly at his new Armoury Officer's name.

The tall, strongly-built man who stepped out of the airlock and stopped in front of Archer had auburn hair and green eyes. He looked at the Captain with a long and unwavering gaze, before shifting his eyes briefly to Reed, who would have looked positively unimposing in comparison even if he hadn't had to lean on Phlox for support. His usual stubborn self, Malcolm had refused to leave Enterprise on a gurney.

While the Captain went on to make the introductions Trip's mind just blanked. As if it weren't bad enough for Malcolm to be leaving Enterprise to go back to Earth and face a medical discharge; as if it weren't painful enough for his friend not to know what his future would hold, he had to suffer welcoming on board his replacement, someone he had had no voice in choosing and who, through some wicked irony, shared his same given name. There was no justice in all this.

Trip saw Malcolm purse his lips and felt his own heart clench. He felt a sudden urge to bang his fist against the bulkhead in frustration but controlled himself, schooling his features to as neutral an expression as he possibly could as he heard himself being introduced to the new officer. "Lieutenant," he muttered, trying to keep his voice free from bitterness – after all the man carried no guilt.

"Good luck, Lieutenant," Malcolm told his namesake, in a clipped tone that did not quite manage to conceal his feelings. "I am certain you will find the men and women who serve in the Armour to be a fine team."

Gregory looked at Reed for a long moment before replying matter-of-factly, "I'm sure I will."

_That's all you're gonna say? _Trip found himself thinking, anger simmering deep inside.

The senior staff had all said their good-byes to Malcolm in private, each in their own way. But now that the dreaded moment had actually come Trip did not know what to do. It was hard to imagine what _Enterprise_ would be like now, without Malcolm.

Reed turned to his Captain and Trip saw him swallow. "It was an honour, Sir," he said, his voice incredibly steady.

"We'll be waiting for your return, Lieutenant," Archer replied, his own voice, in contrast to Malcolm's, more than a little veiled. "Don't make us wait too long," he added, looking straight into Reed's eyes.

Malcolm then turned to Trip and his lips curved briefly down. "Take care of my…" He faltered. "…of Lieutenant Gregory's Armoury, Commander. Don't ever leave it without _juice_," he added, with a brave attempt at lightening the mood.

"When you come back you'll find _your _Armoury in perfect condition," Trip replied, then adding in a choked voice, "You take care of yourself, Lieutenant. I'll be in touch."

With a nod at the other senior officers, Malcolm slowly made his way with Phlox for support across the airlock to the Vulcan ship, and disappeared from view without another glance behind him. Phlox stepped back out of the airlock, his expression more downcast than Trip could ever remember seeing.

Trip's heart sank. All of a sudden he was aware of just how tense his whole body was and consciously tried to relax at least some of his muscles.

Turning around, he saw the same pained expression that must undoubtedly be on his own face painted on Hoshi's usually smooth and Travis' usually cheerful features. T'Pol was standing with her arms behind her back, her eyes fully betraying, for once, her suppressed emotions. The Captain was putting up a brave front for the sake of the remaining senior officers, but Trip knew him too well and could see right through his front: Archer was grieving the loss of a friend just as sorely as the rest of them. _Hell, even the Doc isn't his cheerful self_, Trip thought sourly.

Archer drew in a deep breath and his features hardened as he straightened his shoulders. "Mr. Mayweather, resume our previous course," he told his helmsman, who nodded and left. "Lieutenant," he added, turning with a pause to the new officer. "Ensign Sato will show you to your quarters. After you have settled in, please report to my ready room."

"Yes, Sir," Gregory replied in what seemed to be his characteristic easy manner, and followed Hoshi out into the corridor.

"I'll be in my ready room," Archer said, to no one in particular, as though he felt he needed to say _something_.

Trip watched him as he moved away, then shook off his immobility and hurried to join him. He fell in step with his Captain, who shot him a sideways glance.

"Commander?" Archer asked enquiringly.

Trip didn't really know what to say. There was too much on his mind. He tried to string together a few intelligible words but obviously the process was taking a bit too long, for he saw Archer turn and cast him a longer look. The Captain's brow knitted in concern.

"This is hard for all of us, Trip," Archer said quietly. "It's always difficult to say good-bye to a friend, especially under such circumstances."

They arrived at the turbo lift, and Trip had still not managed to find his voice. In fact, he was biting his lip to keep it bottled up, for he couldn't be sure that if he let it out it wouldn't be just a bit too loud and angry. He decided to wait until they were in the privacy of Archer's ready room before voicing his feelings.

"Capt'n," he ground out, as soon as the door had closed behind them. "Why wasn't Malcolm's advice of promoting Müller to Armoury Officer taken into consideration?"

Archer turned to face him. "Trip, I take orders too. Starfleet Command told me the Vulcan ship would bring me Enterprise's new Armoury Officer. I suggested Lieutenant Reed ought to be consulted, but they dismissed the idea. I am _sorry_," he finished through gritted teeth.

Trip passed a hand through his hair in a nervous gesture. "This is nonsense!" he exclaimed. "As if it weren't bad enough, he had to be called Malcolm," he murmured to himself. "Of all the names -"

"Look, Trip, I'm as angry as you are over this," Archer said irritably, pacing the small room and automatically ducking under the bulkheads. "I can't explain it any better than the next person. But for the moment there is nothing we can do about it. So I trust you will set a good example for the rest of the crew and treat him in a polite way."

Trip looked at his Captain with an expression of utter disbelief painted on his face. "Of course I will, Capt'n!" he exclaimed in outrage. _At least until he makes his first mistake, _he silently added. He huffed; "That's not my point."

"What is your point, then?" Archer asked, frowning.

"What right did they have to…" Trip faltered. _Of course Starfleet Command would have the right,_ he thought grimly. He slowly shook his head. "I just don't know. I feel so scrambled," he said quietly.

Archer sighed and glanced at Trip in understanding. "This is harder for you than for any of us," he said with feeling. "You and Malcolm have become close friends. Give yourself some time to adjust, Trip."

"Aye Capt'n."

But as he left Archer's ready room, Trip knew it would take him a _helluva_ long time to adjust – provided he ever could.

888

888

The Vulcan was ship was quiet – too quiet. That had been the first thing Malcolm had noticed as he had been wheeled by the Vulcan doctor onto the ship, away from _Enterprise_ and the only place he had ever truly called "home".

He hated that wheelchair. Right after they had crossed the airlock, Phlox had expressly forbidden him from walking any further, saying that any extensive amount of movement before the operation might seriously hinder its chances of success. Not that Malcolm _could_ walk for long anyway, but that was not the point. He despised being mollycoddled – least of all by a group of strangers, and Vulcan strangers at that.

The Vulcan doctor had barely spoken whilst escorting him to his quarters, and had left him there with a curt:

"I hope you will be comfortable. I will return in two Earth hours to assess your condition and any treatment you may require before your surgery on Earth."

And all Malcolm could think, as he sat there in his too-sparse guest quarters, was; _isn't 'hope' an emotion? _

Just as he was musing this, however, the bell – even that sounded constrained – rang, presumably heralding the return of the grey-haired doctor. It was a testament to the Vulcan's non-existent bedside manner that his presence made Malcolm long for Phlox and his menagerie of experimental creatures.

Malcolm sighed. It was going to be a long day, and an even longer ride to Earth.

888

"Lieutenant Reed." The voice which spoke from behind him was calm, cool, and decidedly _not_ male. Malcolm would have turned, but found he neither had the energy nor the will to do so.

_Damn that doctor,_ he thought as soft steps approached him from behind, _he should have left me facing the door._

"Hello?" he said, every tactical instinct he possessed screaming despite himself. He hated being like this, unguarded... helpless.

"Lieutenant," the voice repeated, and a shadow fell across his shoulder. The shadow moved, and Malcolm found himself face to face with the fair, oval face of a Vulcan female. He forced a small smile onto his face, but gave up when he realised that the Vulcan was not going to return it.

"Yes?" he asked, hating not knowing who this woman was, hating the fact that he was reliant on the help of strangers. "Isn't Doctor - "

"Doctor Tuval is indisposed," the Vulcan – dressed in a pale blue uniform and with dark hair tied in a tight bun at the nape of her neck – cut him off coolly. "My name is Shi'tal. I am a nurse under Doctor Tuval. I will be looking after you whilst you are onboard."

Malcolm nodded slowly. So, it seemed he did not even merit a look-in from the ship's doctor... _how much_, he wondered, _do the Vulcans resent my presence onboard?_

He quickly cut the thought off, as he guiltily remembered T'Pol and her brief token of goodbye...

888

"Lieutenant." T'Pol stood in the entrance to his quarters, looking more awkward than Malcolm could ever recall her being. Her hands were clasped behind her back, but as she moved forward Malcolm caught a brief glimpse of the PADD she held in her hands.

"Subcommander." He nodded, suddenly aware that he had never taken the chance to really get to know the Vulcan science officer. Now he would never be able to.

T'Pol slowly moved her hands around her body, and held out the PADD.

"I am... sorry to learn of your discharge, Lieutenant. I hope this may help on your way to recovery."

Malcolm reached to take the PADD, and flushed when he realised that, despite all his best efforts, he could not make the last few inches to take the slim item from T'Pol's outstretched hands. The science officer hastily pressed it into his hands, and turned to go, and Malcolm realised that she was more upset than her upbringing would allow her to show. It both moved and disturbed him that his leaving could affect the unflappable T'Pol to allow her emotions so close to the surface.

"Thank you," he said softly, gripping the PADD. T'Pol nodded, not looking back, and stepped out of the room.

Only when the door had been closed for a full five minutes did Malcolm work up the courage to look down at the PADD.

It was a Vulcan book, entitled _Meditation and Recovery_. It had been painstakingly translated into English.

888

"Lieutenant?" The Vulcan nurse asked, sounding mystified, and Reed looked up, smiling properly for the first time in days.

"Sorry," he said softly. "You just caught me day-dreaming." He coughed, and the smile vanished, before looking up into the inscrutable face. Or rather, almost inscrutable. "You're fairly young, aren't you?" He found himself asking, and the nurse cocked her head to one side, a brief flicker of surprise crossing her face.

"What makes you say that?" She asked. Malcolm paused slightly, and toyed with the idea of shrugging, but quickly dismissed the thought. Why make the effort?

"Well, I've served with a Vulcan officer for several years, but it seems to me that you can't hide your emotions quite as well as – as well as might be expected of a more... experienced individual."

Shi'tal's eyelids flickered slightly, and it crossed Malcolm's mind that the tradition of it being rude to ask a woman her age crossed over even species barriers. The stress of his injury was obviously affecting him more than he thought.

"You are right." Nurse Shi'tal replied shortly, before moving around his chair and out of his line of sight.

He felt a pair of strong hands place themselves under his arms and flinched.

"I won't hurt you," the nurse said with surprising gentleness. "I need to examine you. You must lie on the bed. Please let me assist you."

Malcolm nodded slowly and, ignoring all his better instincts, allowed Shi'tal to pull him into a standing position. Her strength surprised him, and he leaned on her as he shuffled towards the bed, despising every step of that unsteady journey.

888

It was the same every day, as regular as a well-oiled clock. Shi'tal would come in the mornings, to check that his condition was just the same as it had been the night before, and would come again at midday with food and news of the ship's course. Malcolm had at first had to ask for these updates - it made him uneasy to know nothing of where they were - but after a time Shi'tal offered the information without needing his prompting. She would come again in the evening, and after some hesitation the first time, had offered to meditate with him to curb his evident restlessness. It was strange how a member of a species which allegedly spurned emotions could be so empathetic to the feelings of another.

But despite all her unexpected kindnesses, Malcolm found the waiting unbearable. Most of the time he was left alone in his quarters, and the few times he had ventured to leave his room his wheelchair had attracted too much attention for his liking, and he had found he could not stand the cold, condescending glances of the Vulcan crew – or so they seemed to him from his now somewhat inconvenient perspective.

It was after a particularly trying day for Malcolm – he had just received a letter from Trip and by all accounts his replacement on _Enterprise_ was ruining all his good work in the armoury – that Shi'tal entered his quarters, a copper-coloured PADD in one hand and in the other a mug of sweetened _tishrah_ tea, to which Malcolm had become somewhat partial during his time with the Vulcans. Malcolm frowned as he remember the letter. It had been a gloomy thing for him to receive, and it had run thus:

_Malcolm,_

_I hope your first day on the Vulcan ship wasn't half as bad as our first day with Lieutenant Gregory onboard. The man has already got on the nerves of half the crew. You should've see the Captain's face when Gregory told him – didn't ASK him, mind you – that he intended to lead the senior staff in a half-hour jog every evening around the corridors of E-deck! "Mr Gregory," the Captain barked back "this is a ship of exploration, and we are **not** the Marines. Please remove this preposterous notion from your mind." That's exactly what he said - 'preposterous notion' - and the way he spat it out I could've sworn he sounded **just **like a certain Brit I know…_

_Anyway, I saw Müller in the mess hall earlier, and he told me that Gregory has already changed the Armoury roster and wants to test the firing skills of all Armoury and Security personnel. Doesn't sound like he's made himself many friends among your people. Because they still are your people, Malcolm, and proudly so, and I doubt they'll ever learn to consider themselves anybody else's. _

_So how are those pointy-ears treating you? Hope they aren't being too patronising. Don't you let them! _

_Anyway, got to go now – you better write soon, Mal. Or else._

_Trip_

For a moment the memory caused Malcolm to grit his teeth in anger, but then he remembered Shi'tal, and looked up with a curt – if not grateful – nod.

"Lieutenant," she greeted as she reached his side. On the second day she had moved his chair so that he faced the door. She had neither asked beforehand nor mentioned it afterwards, but Malcolm was grateful. "I have been doing some research."

"Oh?" Malcolm asked, grimacing slightly as she held the mug out for him to sip from. He had tried holding it the first day, but his hands had shaken so much that he had spilt it over himself. "Such as?"

Shi'tal placed the mug on the desk – which still seemed too bare even for the austere Reed's liking – and held the PADD out for him.

"On your injury and your upcoming surgery." She cocked her head to one side. "I thought it might be beneficial for you to know the details of the procedure you are to undergo."

Malcolm froze, staring at the PADD. He lowered his eyes.

"No," he said firmly. "I don't want to know. I do not want to hear anyone say _fifty percent chance_ again. All the _information_ in the world is not going to get be back where I belong – in my armoury on _Enterprise_."

Shi'tal placed the PADD on the desk, very nearly frowning.

"I do not understand." She said. "It is illogical not to attempt to comprehend the principles of the surgical procedure which may save your motor responses."

Malcolm slowly shook his head, a sudden wave of homesickness washing over him. Homesick for _Enterprise_ more than Earth, but even Earth would do – anywhere but here, where no one understood what he felt and where even he, the Brit famed for his stoicism, appeared almost over emotional.

He closed his eyes, feeling terribly tired.

"Please, Shi'tal," he said. "Humans – humans don't do things that way, it's just -"

"You are being illogical." Shi'tal's cold tone pricked him where nothing else could, and he felt a sudden flare-up of anger inside of him.

"Please leave," he said, his voice shaking slightly. "Now."

The Vulcan drew herself up, and Malcolm knew that the slight tightening of her jawbone was the closest she would ever come to expressing her disgust at his actions. She strode out without speaking, and Malcolm stared after her. Only when the door closed behind her did he realise the true effects of his actions. He groaned, and placed his head in his hands. He had just managed to alienate the only friend he had on the Vulcan ship – and friends, since his leaving _Enterprise_, were one thing he could hardly do without.

888

**A/N:** Please review! Bear in mind that if you reviews you make not one, but two people nice and happy! 


	3. Chapter Three

**A/N:** Hello all! Sorry for the slight wait – one of the two D's is a bit lazy! Just a few responses to you absolutely wonderful reviewers;

**firebirdgirl:** Thanks! And don't worry – Malcolm Gregory is going to start having some very bad days indeed...

**IcthusFish:** Wow! Loved the deep review! Thanks – hope you enjoy the next chapter.

**Romanse:** Many thanks for your great review. Putting us two together was a bad idea... we both like torturing Malcolm so now he gets twice as much angst with us both on his case!

**Begoogled:** Thanks for reviewing – hope you like chapter three! We're having a think about adding more letters later on, so watch out for them.

**Boleyn:** Hmm... you'll have to wait and see if he gets better or not... Thanks for reviewing!

**JadziaKathryn:** Thankyou for being willing to throw reality to the winds for a bit! Interesting comment about the letters... hmm...

**Disclaimer:** Between us, we still own nothing. Apart from a Malcolm action figure. Try and guess which D has that one!!!

**Chapter Three**

Standing at parade attention at the situation table Trip, Travis, Hoshi and T'Pol followed with their eyes their Captain, who was pacing around it in a mood that was getting darker by the second. Finally the heavy silence was broken by the sound of the turbolift's door opening, and a moment later a very relaxed Lieutenant Gregory appeared.

"Good of you to join us, _Lieutenant_," Archer exploded the moment the man entered his vision.

Gregory stopped in his tracks and his face got an interesting shade of pink. Then with an innocent smile he hurried between Trip and Travis. Archer came to stop in front of him and glared at his new Armoury Officer. Green eyes met green eyes.

"Am I… late, Captain?" Gregory asked, raising one dark eyebrow. Beside him, Trip and Travis tensed up automatically.

"You better believe you are," Archer replied through gritted teeth. "When I call a senior staff meeting at o-eight-hundred hours, I mean o-eight-hundred hours sharp, Lieutenant," he growled. "This may well be a non-military vessel but it doesn't mean discipline on board is going to be lax," Archer continued, his voice cold and cutting. "We all have duties to attend, and none of us can waste their time waiting for you to grace us with your presence; we are not here to twiddle our thumbs, in case you haven't noticed!"

A tense silence fell in the small room. Archer swept his senior staff with his gaze, and their reactions, more than anything else, told him he had gone slightly over the top: Trip was staring at him wide-eyed; Hoshi and Travis seemed afraid to breathe and even T'Pol, in her own Vulcan way, eyebrows fully raised, appeared affected by his outburst.

Gregory, on the other hand, was studying him with a knitted brow, looking more puzzled than anything else. "Uhm, I'm sorry," he replied.

"I'm sorry, _Sir_," Archer bit back. The moment the words were out he almost regretted saying them. He hated acting the haughty captain, but this Gregory was a little too laid-back even for him. He found himself thinking of Malcolm. Reed had always been the first to arrive in the situation room, with time to spare. The few times Archer had given him a dressing down, Reed had stood rigidly at attention, looking embarrassed and sorry. Archer sighed and wondered if the seething anger he felt deep down wasn't caused more by Malcolm's forced absence than by Gregory's tardiness. After all, the man was only a few minutes late.

"I'm sorry, Sir," he heard his new Armoury Officer repeat, but his voice held no real regret, only compliance.

Pushing his thoughts aside and heaving a deep, calming breath, Archer turned to T'Pol. "What have we got, Subcommander?" he asked in a neutral tone of voice.

"This region of space does not appear to be of particular interest, Captain," T'Pol replied, and Archer thought he could detect a gentler inflection to her usually inexpressive voice, as if she were trying to soothe him. "However, we have detected a signal coming from a couple of light-years away. The language is not in our database and the signal is not clear enough, therefore we do not know what message it is conveying. We cannot exclude, however, that it might be a distress signal, Captain," she concluded.

Archer paced the length of the room, letting the silence stretch for a moment.

"Any thoughts?" he eventually asked, turning around to face his staff.

"I think we should go take a look," Gregory immediately replied. "_Sir_," he hastened to add.

Archer pursed his lips and counted to ten. He was fast developing antagonistic feelings towards his new Armoury Officer, and he did not like it. He had always prided himself on being able to bond with his crew. But this man's carefree attitude definitely got on his nerves.

"Commander Tucker?" Archer asked, turning to Trip.

"If there is a chance this _is_ a distress signal we can't really ignore it, Sir" Trip replied, his charming southern drawl kept carefully in check for the occasion.

Archer now turned to his Vulcan SIC. "T'Pol?" he prompted.

"Commander Tucker is right, Captain," she calmly replied. "Yet I must advise caution. We simply do not know what to expect."

Archer turned to his staff. "Mr. Mayweather, set a course. Ensign Sato, work on that signal, see if you can give us even an approximate translation. Commander, keep the engines running smoothly. As for you, Mr. Gregory, see that our targeting sensors don't go out of alignment; they have a tendency to do so at the least opportune moments."

"Shouldn't be a big problem, Sir," Gregory replied with a smile.

"Well, it is, Lieutenant," Archer said, trying to keep his annoyance from showing again on his face. "Lieutenant Reed was constantly re-aligning them, and certainly not because of lack of know-how."

Gregory's smile did not waver. "Don't worry, Captain," he said. "Our weapons will be well-oiled and ready."

Archer narrowed his eyes. "Dismissed," he said. Much to his relief, he saw Gregory head for the Armoury; Müller at tactical much preferable to an unfamiliar face.

Trip let the other officers file away, then approached the Captain. "You ok, Capt'n?" he asked in a low voice.

Archer smirked. "Am I so obvious?" he asked.

"I thought I was the one who was supposed to have it the hardest," Trip replied with a sad grin. "You sounded just like Malcolm, when you ranted about discipline," he added with a soft snort.

Archer sighed. "I never thought I'd hear myself complain about the lack of discipline on this ship," he said with a mirthless chuckle. "Speaking of which: haven't you got anything to do, Commander?" he asked.

"Aye, aye, Sir." Trip saluted playfully and moved off.

§§§

"Commander!"

Trip looked up from his dish of pasta and saw the new Armoury Officer standing expectantly with a tray in his hands.

"Is this seat taken?" Gregory asked when Trip seemed to have lost his tongue.

"Uhm, no, please," Trip muttered. He cleared his throat, looking for something to say. "So… gettin' used to life on board the Enterprise, Lieutenant?" he asked after a moment.

"Yeah, it's great, can't wait to go on my first away mission," Gregory replied enthusiastically. "But please, call me Malcolm. I don't like formalities," he added with a twinkle in his expressive green eyes.

Trip had to swallow hard to push his morsel of lasagna past a lump that had suddenly formed in his throat. "Uhm… don't you have a… nickname I could use? I kind of like nicknames," he said, hoping his smile didn't look as fake as it felt.

Gregory chuckled. "Sure - Mal, Mally, MG… you choose. I've got half a dozen!"

Trip bit his lip. "MG it is then," he replied, choosing the nickname that would least remind him of his friend back on Earth.

"I understand everyone calls you Trip," Gregory said jovially, shoving a piece of meat in his mouth. "May I call you that too, when we are off duty?" he asked around the food he was chewing.

"Ah… sure," Trip mumbled, caught off-balance. There was no reason why he should be bothered by the request, yet for some reason he was.

Gregory's face lit up and Trip averted his gaze, to avoid showing his discomfort. Hell, it wasn't right to feel like that – it wasn't the guy's fault if Malcolm had had to be sent back to Earth and discharged from Starfleet – yet he felt uncomfortable in the man's presence.

Silence fell between them, as they got busy with their lunch.

"So, Trip," Gregory said much too soon, in his rather shrill voice. "I studied the specs of the phase cannons – I was told you helped build them, is that right?"

_Damn_, Trip cursed, _I never thought I'd miss Malcolm's silences. _Trip's mind went back to the time Malcolm and he, with their teams, had worked their butts off to install the phase cannons so that they could defend the ship against some mysterious aliens who seemed to want to blow them out of deep space. His mouth turned up in a small smile at the reminiscence.

"Yeah, the engineering and armoury people did it, under my and Lieutenant Reed's supervision," he eventually replied.

"That must've been fun," Gregory exclaimed, grabbing his cup of coffee and taking a long gulp of it. Putting it down, he picked up his fork, which had a broccoli flower speared in its throngs, and pointed it at Trip. "I'm pretty sure I can get a better yield out of them, but I'll need a little bit more power: think you can spare it?" he asked outright.

Trip stopped himself at the last minute from rolling his eyes. Reed and Gregory might be quite different from each other but apparently they shared a bit more than just the first name. "Well, _MG_," Trip replied, stressing the nickname. "It's not as if…"

He never got the chance to finish his sentence. There was a loud noise and the ship rocked violently. Immediately the tactical alert lights went on, and people began running to gain their stations.

"What the hell is going on?" Gregory asked.

"I don't know, but we just went to tactical alert," Trip said, jumping to his feet.

"Tactical what?"

"Get to the bridge, move!" Trip shouted, as he rushed out to reach Engineering.

§§§

The ship rocked again and Gregory almost fell against the Captain's chair as he stepped out of the turbolift and hurried towards the tactical station. He glanced at the viewscreen, where an alien ship he could not recognise appeared to be firing on Enterprise.

"Hull plating down to eighty percent," Müller announced tensely. Then, seeing his new boss approach, the Ensign slipped out of the chair.

"Captain, they're not answering hails," Hoshi cried out from her station.

"Mr. Gregory," Archer ordered. "Target their warp core."

"Aye, Sir," Gregory replied.

A moment later a red phaser beam was seen cross the space between the two ships, and the viewscreen was filled with the pyrotechnics of the alien vessel exploding.

"What the hell…" Archer jumped to his feet in disbelief. Then his hands clenched into tight fists and his jaw jutted out. He turned to the tactical station. "I only said _target_ their warp core, _Lieutenant_," he growled. "I don't remember ordering you to fire!"

"Sir… I thought you meant…"

"You're not here to _think_, you're here to carry out my _orders_," Archer interrupted him, fuming. "Targeting their warp core might have been enough to stop their attack," he ground out.

"I'm sorry, Sir, but…"

Ignoring Gregory's mumbled excuses, Archer turned to his SIC. "T'Pol, did you recognise that ship's configuration?" he asked tensely.

"No, Captain," the Vulcan officer replied. "It isn't in the Vulcan database."

Archer pinched the bridge of his nose. "Hoshi, get me Admiral Forrest," he ordered, and headed for his ready-room.

888

How many times had he lain awake at night, waiting for that step on the stair that was ever coming on – and on – yet never arriving? Stuart Reed could not answer that question, but he could still recall the first night his son had stayed away, and how he had lain, exhausted but unable to sleep, until at last he heard the slamming of the door and the drunken staggering that heralded the eighteen year-old Malcolm's return to the family nest.

And then his son's absences had become longer, and his returns more infrequent, until at last Stuart Reed could hardly remember the last time he slept through the night whilst at home. Perhaps it was guilt from forever being away, but when he was on land he did nothing but worry.

He wondered if Mary had worried like that whilst he was away on the oceans, but he never asked. There were some things you did not talk about. Like the chance that one day, the boy that you waited for might never return...

But he was returning. Just not... just not in the way Stuart had hoped he would. Unharmed. Undamaged...

Stuart sighed, drawing glances from others waiting in the arrivals terminal. He was in London, at the spaceport, awaiting the shuttle which would bring his injured son home.

There was a squeal of thrusters and, with a sigh not unlike Stuart's own, the doors into the huge, airy terminal opened. He rose, his jaw set firmly. But deep beneath the chiselled expression of determination, an emotion stirred deep within him.

It was never supposed to end like this.

888

"Welcome home." Stuart Reed – previously Admiral, Royal Navy officer – said stiffly, careful not to allow his eyes to rest upon the wheelchair his son sat in. During his time he had met many seriously injured men – proud men – and he knew that there was nothing worse than for them to be talked down to. And goodness knew his son was the proudest of the lot.

"Mr Reed, I presume?" A voice spoke up before Malcolm had a chance to respond. His son smiled ruefully and mouthed a single word: "_Vulcans!_" But then he seemed to remember who he was talking to, and his expression froze. Stuart ignored this.

"Indeed." He replied curtly, pausing at the sight of the woman's pointed ears. He stiffened involuntarily. He was not a xenophobic man by nature, but he was an old-fashioned creature and had never before seen an alien in quite such close quarters before. He was surprised at how normal she seemed – but for the ears and emotionless expression on her face, she could be human. "And you would be - ?"

"This is Shi'tal. She has been... caring for me whilst I was on the Vulcan ship." At last Malcolm spoke up, but he did not meet his father's eyes. Once again Stuart, with infinite patience, made no reaction to this. One of them had to behave like a sensible adult. Instead he nodded to Shi'tal, and with a slight flicker of understanding she stepped back, releasing her hold on the wheelchair. She stepped around the chair so that she could face Malcolm.

"Lieutenant," she said, then raised her hand and held the fingers apart. "May you live long and prosper." Once again that rueful smile appeared on Malcolm's face, and Stuart wondered when it was his son had grown up so much. He'd been so terribly young when he'd left his home and family for Starfleet.

"The same to you," he said eventually, and Stuart watched silently as he made to move his hand, but then gave up with the slightest of shrugs. "Goodbye Shi'tal. And... thankyou." The Vulcan nodded once more in response, and Stuart Reed was sure that some emotion crossed her face, but to his frustration he found he could not identify it. But it must have meant a great deal to Malcolm, for his expression softened for a moment into the slightest of smiles. But then the Vulcan woman turned and walked back through the airlock, and into the waiting shuttle.

Stuart Reed took a firm hold on the wheelchair handles, and watched as his son's back stiffened imperceptibly. Once more he said nothing, for no words could induce a Reed – and this _particular_ Reed, especially - to talk when they did not wish to. When he was ready Malcolm would open up. Things would get better.

And though he did not say a word, Stuart Reed half hoped that his son would sense and believe his father's fervent wish that things would, indeed, improve.

Only time would tell – but at least now he could sleep at night. His son was home.

888

**A/N:** Please review. We really, really, **really** like it!


	4. Chapter Four

**A/N:** Hello everyone! HoVis (yes, it's all her fault) is a very lazy girl, which is why this hasn't been uploaded for a while. Sorry!!!

A few responses:

**Begoogled:** Thanks for a great review! Hopefully you'll like the next scene and we'll try our best to really develop the Malcolm and Stuart thing.

**firebirdgirl:** Thanks for your review – hope you like this chapter! (And yes, MG is a bit... inconsistent!)

**Romanse:** It's nice to know you had some sympathetic feelings for MG – I don't think we did! The Vulcan nurse may feature again later in the story, so keep your eyes peeled. ;-) Thanks loads for your review.

**IcthusFish:** Woah... long review!!! LOL we had a lot of fun with MG... our theory was that he'd worked his way up through the ranks thanks to connections rather than actual skill! I'm not sure where it is set in terms of time – to be frank HoVis (I don't know about volley) has practically blanked out the final season of Enterprise, and I'm sure almost every Ent fan in existence has amnesia in regards to TATV! And finally, RE the action figure... how on Earth did you guess?!

**The Libran Iniquity:** HoVis is much comforted that she isn't the only insane, Malcolm-doll-owning person round here! Hmm... Gregory is something of an inconsistent individual; and he'll probably make more slip-ups before this fun is through! Hope you enjoy the next chapter and thanks loads for your review!

**Disclaimer:** Nope. Nada.

**Chapter Four**

"Malcolm! It's so good to see you again." Malcolm permitted a small smile to cross his face as his mother – ever cheerful even in the face of hardship and troubles – pulled him into a suffocating embrace. After a long moment she drew away, and Malcolm was surprised to find that there his cheek was wet – but whether from her tears or his he could not say. He coughed uncomfortably, and his father took the hint – turning back to the door and walking out, muttering something about needing the fresh air. Both his wife and his son breathed a sigh of relief as soon as he was out of hearing.

"Thank heavens for that," Malcolm said dryly. "I was practically suffocating from the silence on the way here. He's still the same as ever, then?"

"Quite." Mary Reed said, pulling a chair up so she could look her son in the eye. "And are you - alright?"

Malcolm paused a moment before answering. With anyone else – even Trip – he would probably have brushed the inquiry off with a gruff 'fine', but he knew that his mother would not accept that. She had always been his closest ally – _she_ had always been there.

"No." He paused. "But I will be." Mary looked at him closely, frowning slightly.

"And are you still... bitter? You should know by now that the call of duty is too strong – for any Reed."

Malcolm stopped for a moment in amazement, realising that he had forgotten just how well his mother could get to the root of any problem. It had always been of great irony to the young Malcolm that his mother, a marriage counsellor, did not seem to be able to keep her _own_ husband at home. Of course, he knew better now.

"I know." He agreed eventually. "I've risked my life in the name of duty enough times to know that." Silently, he added: _but had I a family the duty to them would be the greater. _

His mother rose, turning away so that he could not see her face.

"And now that risk has got the better of you." Her voice was quiet: but after a moment she turned back, a smile upon her face. "We think too much, you and I," she said, gently helping him from his wheelchair and into an enveloping, Victorian-style chair that had been his favourite as a child. "Your father was always so straightforward, but I think that you..." she trailed off, frowning slightly. Malcolm put his hand around her wrist and squeezed gently.

"And how are you, Mum?" He asked quietly. "You were ill."

Mary straightened herself up, and turned back to the counter upon which she was cutting vegetables.

"I was," she said eventually. "I'm better now."

888

It had been two weeks since Malcolm Gregory had come aboard _Enterprise_, and Trip didn't know how much more he could take of the bumbling man's presence. Sure, the guy tried hard enough, but he was plain incompetent. Just yesterday he had come down to Engineering, and –

"Hey," Trip murmured, glancing in surprise at his screen as he entered his quarters and grinning. "Mail post-marked Britain. So what ya got to say for yourself, Mister Reed?"

_Dear Commander Tucker,_ it began, and Trip snorted at the formal use of rank.

_I must apologise for not writing sooner. Things have been a little hectic. I never imagined that I would be living with my parents again after joining Starfleet. How is Lieutenant Gregory faring? Quite a coincidence, our sharing the same name. _

_I have been attending preliminary visits at the hospital for my operation, which will be taking place in a week's time. The hospital staff are alright, I suppose, though a little patronising – at times I feel like reminding the doctors that I am in fact a human being, not a slab of meat. But at least the nurses are better-looking than any of Phlox's creatures..._

_Well, I'm sure you have a lot to do, so I'll keep you no longer – I'm afraid that without me you'll have to do your paperwork all yourself, Mr Tucker,_

_Sincerely,_

_Malcolm._

"For heavens sake." Trip muttered, his smile fading, to be replaced with an expression of frustrated determination. So Malcolm wanted to play it like that then, did he? Well, Trip Tucker was made of sterner stuff than that – and it would take more than a curt letter for Malcolm to cut him off.

Cracking his knuckles, his set down to writing a reply.

888

**A/N:** Wow, that was short. But never fear, chapter five is a beast of a lengthy chapter! Please review, we really, really, REALLY like it!!!


	5. Chapter Five

Hello! This is volley. Sorry for the long wait, but here, finally, is chapter 5 of our story. Thank you to all of you who have reviewed so far. I hope you'll continue to enjoy this fic and leave your comments.

**Chapter Five**

Malcolm had been on Earth for five days when he received Trip's reply to his first letter, and he had not been looking forward to it at all. A very perverse part of him – the part that had been in control when he had written that letter – wanted as little to remind him of _Enterprise_ as possible. But somehow, he knew that Trip wouldn't see it quite that way... so it was with a feeling of slight trepidation that he read Trip's words.

_Hi Malcolm._

_Haven't I told you a hundred times that you can call me Trip? For pete's sake, don't you think you could let go of the 'Commander' now that you're not wearing pips any more? Sorry, sorry – didn't mean to remind you of that. And I shouldn't get mad at you. But – hell – I so wanted to get your news, and then all I receive is that 'Dear Commander Tucker' followed by a few lines in which you tell me near to nothing… I felt like taking the first Vulcan ship straight back to Earth to come and give you a good kick in the rear,_ _Mr__Reed. _

_Damn it, Malcolm, aren't you going to tell me how you're doing? I thought our friendship was close enough, and you'd let me help. I may not be able to be physically there with you while you go through this, but don't you dare cut me out, not when you're light years away from me, where I can't come knock some sense into you. That time, in the Shuttlepod, you told me it had taken you a long time to figure me out. Well, it took me even longer to take down your damn shields: don't put them up again. Alright, alright, enough…_

_Life on Enterprise has been 'eventful' – as T'Pol would put it. Thanks, of course, to our friend Lieutenant Gregory. The man is… well, I don't even know how to describe him. I haven't figured out yet if he's plain dumb or just inept. I almost feel bad for him, he looks sort of out of place on Enterprise… He's nice enough, or tries to be, but for all his good intentions he keeps making the Captain mad and rubbing everyone the wrong way. When he told Jon that he wanted us to jog every evening, we all thought 'great, here's another Hayes; but in fact he's quite the opposite - a bit too laid-back even for yours truly, though you may find that hard to believe. He arrived at the first senior staff meeting late and the Captain bit his head off. And – get this – Jon actually told him that he shouldn't expect discipline on Enterprise to be lax! I swear, he's sounding more and more like you, Malcolm. _

_Then MG – that's his nickname, by the way, I certainly wasn't going to call him Malcolm – managed to blow an unknown alien ship to smithereens. Yeah, you read correctly, he destroyed an alien vessel. We were under attack and the Captain asked him to target their warp core, hoping this would convince our mysterious enemy to back off; but MG decided to go one step further and fired. The alien ship exploded before our eyes. We don't even know who those guys were. Jon was furious; he had to call Forrest about it and Starfleet command wasn't too pleased, as I'm sure you can imagine. Apparently, though, our wonder Armoury Officer will get away with it, on the grounds that he misunderstood the Captain's order. Extremelyodd, don't you think? If you ask me, the least he deserved was an official reprimand on his record._

_Now we are en route to track down what might be a distress signal. To be honest I hope it isn't. I don't fancy going on a rescue mission with MG. _

_Don't worry about us, though. Müller is keeping an eye on everything and I'm sure Jon would include him in any away party. Anyway, I'd better hit the sack. It's been a long day and I want to get a good rest, especially since tomorrow we should reach the region of space from which that worrying signal is coming._

_Do I need to say again that your next letter better be a decent one? _

_Trip _

Malcolm paused as he finished the letter, and swallowed slowly. He had been a fool to try and push his friends away and, whilst he was light-years away from them, it was some comfort at least to know he had their support.

After all, what are friends for?

888

The alien vessel that filled the viewscreen was perfectly still; no lights could be seen, no signs to indicate that anything on it was at all functioning. The ship, flat and elongated in shape, was not in the Vulcan data base. Hoshi had worked non-stop trying to make sense of the automated signal they had picked up, but all she had been able to ascertain was that is was indeed a request for help: the signal was weak and the alien voice faint and cracking up. Urgent assistance was required. What for, though, they did not now.

The eyes of the bridge crew lingered on the eerie sight for a moment, before returning to the instruments on their consoles, where data were coming in.

"Any power?" Archer asked.

"Life support would appear to be online," T'Pol reported. "Engines are down."

"And weapons," Gregory chimed in from the other side of the bridge. He gave a low whistle which made all eyes converge on him. "Those are scorch marks on the hull. Looks like these guys were in a fight."

Archer smirked at his easy bridge manners but refrained from commenting. "Biosigns?" he went on to enquire.

"I cannot tell for sure, Captain," T'Pol said. "Something in the hull composition of this vessel is partially blocking our scanners. I believe I am picking up biosigns, but it's not clear how many they are, or how strong."

Archer stood up from his chair and looked at the alien vessel, a concentrated expression on his face. Then he turned to Hoshi. "Hail them."

Hoshi's hands flew over her console. "No answer, Sir," the linguist said after a moment.

"Travis, can one of our pods dock with that ship?" Archer asked.

Mayweather studied the info on his display. "Aye, Sir," he answered after a moment. "There are two docking ports, starboard; one has the right diameter."

Trip's gaze was on his Captain: he knew very well the look of determination in those green eyes. Archer turned to the tactical station and Trip could have sworn that for a moment he had forgotten that the man sitting there wouldn't be Reed, for his expression changed subtly.

"Mr. Gregory, prep a shuttlepod," he said after a beat. "You and Ensign Müller will be of the party, with Commander Tucker and I."

"Aye, Sir," Gregory replied enthusiastically. He jumped to his feet and strode to the turbo lift.

Trip breathed in silent relief at the mention of Müller's name. He had been prepared to ask the Captain that the Ensign be included in the away team, had Archer not suggested it himself.

Hoshi cleared her throat. "Uhm, Captain," she ventured, her voice a little taut. "If there are any aliens on board, you might need your Communications Officer…"

She left the rest unspoken but Trip understood Hoshi wanted to let the Captain know she was prepared to do her duty, conquering her anxiety. Although she had come a long way since their early days of exploration, the linguist still felt a little uncomfortable going on away missions, and Malcolm's absence – Trip suspected – was making a few old fears resurface.

Once again Trip's mind went to his friend back on Earth. He thought with a twinge of regret of all the times they - he - had complained about Reed's over cautious approach to away missions. Now he would gladly put up with Malcolm's 'paranoia'. It had taken them a while to appreciate it, but in the end they had learnt that with Reed around nothing bad would happen to them if he could at all help it. Indeed, Malcolm's present predicament confirmed that, Trip thought grimly.

Archer turned to Hoshi, a knowing half-smile playing on his face. "Meet us in the launch bay in twenty minutes," he just said. "You're in charge," he then told T'Pol.

§§§

"Commander," a voice called behind him, and Trip felt the irrational desire to quicken the pace and pretend he had not heard. Instead he stopped and turned, allowing MG to catch up with him before starting again along the corridor, on their way to the launch bay.

"My first away mission," the Armoury Officer said, beaming. "I'm really excited."

"Yeah, well, we're not exactly going on a picnic, Lieutenant," Trip replied dryly.

MG bared two rows of perfectly white teeth in a full smile. "It still beats sitting at tactical or re-aligning the targeting sensors," he said cheerfully.

Trip glanced at the man's hip. "Aren't you supposed to carry a phase pistol? In fact – aren't you supposed to give us all weapons?" he asked with a concerned frown.

"I told Müller to get whatever he thinks we'll be needing. I'm sure after four years he knows perfectly well what's best to bring," MG replied innocently.

Trip didn't trust himself to reply to that statement.

"I'm dying to see what's on that ship," MG added, his voice thick with anticipation. "I was always the adventurous type; my mother was forever trying to keep me out of trouble when I was growing up," he concluded with a chuckle.

Trip cringed. _Great; problem is **you** are the one who should try and keep **us** out of trouble here, _he mulled.

They finally reached the launch bay and Trip saw to his relief that Müller was already there, handing the Captain and Hoshi phase pistols. The Security Ensign had also a couple of guns hanging from his right shoulder, and Trip could not hide a small grin, remembering that Malcolm would always try and bring a gun along, though he seldom got a green light from the Captain. Strangely enough this time Archer didn't seem to have anything to object – perhaps he had finally come round to Reed's style.

"Commander, Lieutenant," Müller greeted them, as he wasted no time in handing them pistols and, to MG, also a gun.

"Thank you, Ensign," Trip replied tensely; he couldn't remember feeling this anxious in a long while. He saw the Security Ensign give him a long, scrutinising look. "Here is an extra power cell, Commander," he said, in a reassuring voice.

MG just nodded, strapping his phase pistol to the right thigh, and Trip couldn't help but notice the lack of verbal communication between the two.

"Care to take the helm, Trip?" Archer asked, as he waved his away team into the shuttlepod.

"Sure Capt'n."

A few minutes they dropped out of Enterprise into the dark vastness of space.

§§§

It took them some ten minutes to get to the ship and manoeuvre so as to dock with it, and they were spent in silence.

"We've got a seal," Trip finally said, eyes focussed on his instruments. He powered down the pod, then got up from the pilot seat and joined the others at the back.

"Lieutenant," Archer said to his new Armoury Officer, "After you."

Gregory nodded and climbed up to the hatch. Phase pistol in hand, he opened it and carefully disappeared through it. A moment later his head reappeared. "Coast is clear," he said.

Archer acknowledged and followed, with Müller, Trip and Hoshi behind him. They found themselves in a dimly lit corridor and they grimaced against the overpowering smell that hung in the air. An eerie silence surrounded them. The passageway was rather narrow and the ceiling low, giving them a feeling of claustrophobia. Trip glanced in concern at Hoshi, knowing how she hated enclosed spaces. No doors could be seen, but the floor was scattered with pieces of discarded equipment and assorted debris.

"Pirates," Müller said in a low voice in which disdain rang clearly, and Gregory raised his eyebrows in surprise, as he looked at the mess around him.

"I thought pirates were a thing of the past," he commented.

Archer studied his scanner. "I'm reading biosigns," he murmured.

"Whoever these aliens are, they can't be very tall," Gregory mumbled with a slight shrug of his shoulders, touching the ceiling with his hand just above his head.

"Not tall doesn't necessarily mean not strong, or not dangerous, Lieutenant," Trip felt the need to remind him. "Besides, we don't know how smallthe aliens that _attacked_ this crew are, and they might still be around," he added.

This earned him a glare from MG. "Don't worry Commander," he said. "Small or not small, I'll know how to deal with them."

Archer turned sharply to face Gregory. "Don't forget, Lieutenant, that this is a rescue mission. I'm hoping that _I'll_ deal with any aliens we might encounter, and that you won't have to show us your shooting skills," he said, pinning MG with narrowed eyes.

Trip winced. It wasn't good to create tensions now.

Holding his scanner in front of him, Archer led them along the corridor. Gregory ambled behind the Captain, giving no apparent signs of nervousness, and Trip had a flash of Malcolm on away missions, a bundle of nerves moving around silently and nimbly, fully prepared to face whatever may await them behind the next bend; the "Reed walk", he had named it. Suddenly he felt his guts clench at the thought that he might not see it again; then forced his mind away from his friend on Earth. Distraction could be fatal in a situation like the present one.

Trip wiped his sweaty brow: the temperature was too warm for his taste, and with each step they took the air was getting staler. Life support might be online, as T'Pol had said, but was obviously minimal. The stench was getting to be unbearable, reminding Trip of that time he had had to spend hours in a decompression chamber with two Klingons. His stomach churned and he swallowed down the bile that was rising in his throat.

"Biosigns ahead, that way," Archer whispered, pointing to the left, where a door could now be seen.

MG jerked his head in the direction Archer had indicated, and Müller started along the corridor, keeping close to the wall. Near the door, he waited for his boss to take position; then triggered it open, and in one swift movement they both jumped half-crouched in front of it, right arms outstretched, ready to face whatever might come to challenge them. Nothing happened. After a moment Trip saw the two men straighten up and take a couple of hesitant steps inside the room. He heard MG curse softly and followed them, Archer at his side; his breath caught at the sight that was offered to him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Hoshi come up beside him and put a hand in front of her mouth to stifle a cry.

TBC


	6. Chapter Six

Hi! Volley here again. Thank you for your reviews. Here is chapter 6, hope you'll enjoy and leave your comments.

**Chapter Six**

The room was quite large, some sort of lounge, or mess hall, judging from the low tables. Nothing particular about it – except for the dozens of bodies sitting in the chairs: frozen in time like a picture, a still life.

Archer was the first one to stir. Trip saw him clench his jaw then approach the closest alien holding his scanner out, while he hid his mouth and nose in the crook of his other arm. The smell was overwhelming and it took all of Trip's training not to give in to the queasy feeling in his stomach.

Hoshi stumbled out of the door again and leaned against the wall of the corridor, and Trip saw Müller take a few quick steps towards her and put a supporting hand on Hoshi's arm. The linguist immediately straightened her shoulders, seemingly annoyed at her own weakness. She gave Müller a wan reassuring smile and a grateful nod. Archer's muffled voice made Trip turn to the room again.

"No visible injuries," the Captain said. "But they are dead as dodos, there's no doubt about it."

The aliens were, as they had expected, small in stature. They had large heads, compared to their size, and a scaly skin that had probably originally been a less sickly colour than the brownish-yellow it was now.

Trip glanced at MG. He had paled visibly. In spite of him Trip felt a twinge of pity – not exactly the sort of excitement the man had anticipated. Taking a step towards the Armoury Officer, he told him softly, "Why don't you join Müller and Hoshi outside? We'll be along in a moment."

"I'm fine," Gregory replied a bit too stiffly.

_What's with Armoury Officers? They're always nothing else but damn fine_, Trip thought in irritation. "That was an order, Lieutenant," he said a lot less gently. "Besides, I don't think these people are posin' any threat. You'd better stand watch in the corridor." Gregory pursed his lips and proceeded to obey.

Trip watched him leave and joined Archer. "Have you been able to learn anythin'?" he asked.

"I've taken scans. I'll show them to Phlox back on Enterprise." Archer frowned and coughed through his sleeve. "It's incredible," he muttered. "If I didn't know they are dead I'd think they were under a spell or something. What I don't understand is: they don't exactly look like people under attack." He cast a last glance over the disturbing scene and withdrew outside the door. Trip followed him, glad to put some distance between himself and the dead bodies.

"I'm reading more biosigns," Archer said, studying his scanner. He looked up from his instrument and peered down the corridor. "Let's go."

Gregory and Müller took point again, and Trip fell in step with Hoshi, who shot him a look which read 'I'll be fine, don't worry'.

More doors opened onto the hallway, and each time the two security men played out their thriller movie scene, jumping in with weapons aimed. More bodies were discovered, all frozen in time as if death had unexpectedly caught these aliens in the middle of their daily activities.

Trip approached Archer. "I'm not sure we oughtta stay on this ship, Capt'n," he said, wiping a sleeve across his sweaty brow. "These guys weren't shot… whatever caused their death might still be a threat," he added, concern in his voice.

Archer unzipped his uniform a little and undid a few buttons of his black undershirt. "Noted, Trip," he replied. "But my scanner is not reading any dangerous substances and I believe by now we would've begun to feel some effects. Especially since it appears that death was immediate. We should at least try and find out if there are any survivors."

They came to what looked like a lift, and Trip held out his own scanner. "There is barely enough power to keep life support goin', Capt'n," he said with urgency. "I don't suggest we take it."

A plaque was fixed to the bulkhead near the lift, with what looked like the layout of the ship. "Hoshi, can you decipher any of this?" Archer asked.

Hoshi cleared her throat and narrowed her eyes, intently studying the alien writings and designs. "A few symbols bear a vague resemblance to Xyrillian, Sir," she said after a few minutes. "I believe both Engineering and the bridge are one deck below us," she added, pointing a delicate finger to the plaque.

Archer nodded and looked around. "There must be some way down, other than the lift."

Müller took a few steps and crouched. "Sir, this is may be it," he said, indicating a round hatch on the floor.

"Trip," Archer said with urgency.

Trip kneeled down and ran his hand along the surface of the metal. Pressing tentatively here and there, he found release pins and was able to lift the round plate, revealing a ladder. Trip peeked down, immediately jerking up again as the by now familiarly unpleasant smell hit his nose like a wall. _Good thing T'Pol is not of the party_. "I seriously doubt we'll find any survivors, Capt'n," he choked out.

"That remains to be seen, Commander," Archer replied, his voice muffled behind the arm that covered his nose and mouth.

"I'm so not lookin' forward to findin' out," Trip commented, wincing.

"Well, what are we waiting for? A little smell won't kill us, Commander" Gregory said, beginning to lower himself through the opening without waiting for Archer's go-ahead.

Trip was about to answer back when a firm grip on his arm stopped him. "Not now," the Captain murmured darkly, and Trip suspected MG was in for another dressing down, once back on Enterprise. Well, at least the man seemed to have recovered his spirit of adventure, if not his rosy complexion.

Trip turned to Hoshi and, seeing her swallow, put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "You'll be ok, Hosh," he said, trying to sound convincing. "Just keep close to Müller and me."

Hoshi followed with her eyes Archer, who was disappearing after Gregory. "Just when I was building a little confidence on away missions," she muttered, "Malcolm goes and gets himself..." She didn't finish the sentence, seeing her own distress reflected in Trip's eyes. "Sorry," she murmured.

"Lieutenant Reed will be all right again, Ensign," Müller said in a low but unwavering voice. "Soon he'll be back on Enterprise." He held out a hand to help her through the opening; then, as Hoshi too disappeared, he added under his breath, "I for one am not prepared to serve indefinitely under a certain person."

Trip wondered briefly if Müller had meant him to overhear that afterthought. Really MG hadn't been very smart; he should have understood that Reed had built a strong bond of loyalty with the people under his command. He should have respected that bond instead of barging into the Armoury and changing things around from day one. Trip shook his head. But then… much as MG could be annoying, could they honestly say that they were not all just a bit prejudiced against him? Trip found himself beside Archer almost without knowing and realised with a start that his thoughts were once again having the better of him. Damn, he'd better stop getting distracted if he wanted to get back to Enterprise in one piece.

Lights on the lower deck were slightly stronger; Trip looked around. This deck was just as in a state of disarray as the upper one; the ship had definitely been boarded and ransacked. MG and Müller were checking the corridor in both directions, weapons at the ready. Hoshi was right beside Archer, intent on trying to decipher more of the alien writing on the walls.

"I think the bridge is that way, Sir," the linguist finally said.

The Captain summoned his security men and they all started down the passageway. The more they proceeded, the more unlikely it seemed that they would find anyone alive. More rooms showed more of the same grim sights they had found on the upper deck.

Finally they got to the bridge. It was quite a bit smaller than Enterprise's, and oval in shape. They stood for a long moment in silence, taking in the scene before them: crewmen sitting at their stations, seemingly intent on their jobs.

"Check around," Archer said eventually, shaking them out of their immobility.

They fanned out, each going to a station and worked in reverent silence for some time, trying to ignore the lifeless bodies around them.

"Sir," Müller said from a low console he was accessing. "I think this is data from the fight… it looks like their engine was disabled immediately. And these, if I'm not wrong, are records of several contemporary transport signatures."

"It sure looks like they didn't put up much of a fight," Trip wondered aloud looking at the corpses that surrounded them.

"Strange…" Müller murmured.

"What is?" Trip asked, moving to stand beside him.

"If I'm reading this correctly, this crew didn't even fire one shot," the Ensign said frowning.

"Maybe they didn't have time, maybe this ship was no match for those pirates," Trip suggested.

"And there were several single transports all over the ship," Müller continued, with a puzzled grimace. "Tactically it's all wrong. A single fighter is too easily taken down."

"They had time to send out a distress signal, though. Here is the communication console," Hoshi said. "The signal we picked up is still going out, though barely, due to insufficient power."

"Download all available data. We'll analyse it on Enterprise. Keep looking," Archer ordered.

Gregory punched a few keys on another console, then shook his head in frustration. "This station is dead," he said. Straightening up, he began to inspect the premises, carefully making his way around the assorted items that littered the floor. Suddenly he stopped and went down on his hunches. "I wonder what this is," he said, picking up what looked like a small, blue ball. "I've seen quite a few of them, on both decks."

Trip looked up from his display in time to catch Müller's disapproving expression. "You shouldn't touch anythin' you don't know what it is, without havin' scanned it first, Lieutenant," Trip warned MG.

"Right," Gregory replied. He looked about to put the ball down when all of a sudden a childish glint flashed in his eyes and, standing up, he mimicked the winding up movement of a pitching baseball player. As soon as he lifted the ball, this began to make a sizzling noise and a thin smoke to pour out of numerous tiny holes on its surface. Gregory's eyes went wide with surprise and for couple of seconds he held it in front of him, unsure of what to do. A moment later he dropped the object and brought a hand to his throat, giving in to fits of coughing. The ball rolled to the foot of the console where Hoshi was downloading data.

"Damn!" Archer cursed. "Get away from that thing!" he cried out.

Gregory took a couple of faltering steps and fell on his knees gasping for air, inhaling, in the process, more of the noxious smoke. Hoshi too had brought her hands to her throat, terror showing in her brown eyes.

They all moved at the same time. Müller, who was closest, rushed to Hoshi's side and grabbed her by one arm, jerking her unceremoniously away. Trip caught her before she could collapse on the floor and dragged her towards the door. _Mal will never forgive me if I let somethin' bad happen to her,_ he found himself thinking. Turning, he saw Archer and Müller grab MG, each under one arm. Smoke was quickly filling the low-ceilinged room, and they were all beginning to cough.

Once in the corridor they triggered the door closed and lowered a barely conscious Gregory to the floor. Panting and coughing, Archer held his scanner in front of the man, a concerned frown knitting his brow.

Trip leaned against the wall and coughed into his sleeve. "That might well be what caused these people's death, Capt'n," he choked out, voicing the worry that was in everyone's mind.

"Could be what all those transports were about," Müller reasoned.

"Gregory's vital signs are erratic," Archer murmured tensely. Then he turned to examine Hoshi, who was slumped against the wall, wheezing, and had her eyes closed. "So are hers," he said, in a tense voice. "How about you two?" he asked Trip and Müller.

"My throat feels a little raw, but I think I'll be fine," Trip rasped out, and Müller nodded in silent agreement.

Archer unzipped his arm pocked and took out his communicator. "Archer to Enterprise," he hailed.

"Go ahead Captain," T'Pol's steady voice answered.

"We have a medical emergency, Commander. We have inhaled a substance that seems poisonous; Gregory and Hoshi need urgent medical attention," Archer said. "We need to transport them back," he ordered.

"I would not advise that, Captain. The vessel's hull composition interferes with our scanners; there is no way to know if it is safe to use the transporter."

"Damn," Archer cursed softly, his eyes taking on a hard expression. "Understood," he told T'Pol. "We'll get back to the shuttlepod; alert Sickbay. Archer out." He put his communicator away and turned to Trip and Müller. "Come on," he urged.

Trip could not remember much about their way back to the pod, except that he had been worried sick about Hoshi who, like MG, was virtually unconscious; and that soon Müller, Archer and he had started to get dizzy and nauseous. When they finally got to the shuttlepod, they were all ready to pass out. He had collapsed in the co-pilot seat, and only the notion that his Captain still needed him had made him hold on to consciousness; he had gritted his teeth and crossed his fingers that they would all be all right. When he had heard the welcome sound of the docking arm grabbing the small vessel and bringing it into the safety of Enterprise's launch bay, his last thought before finally giving in to darkness, had been for Malcolm. He wouldn't want to die without saying good-bye.

TBC


	7. Chapter Seven

**A/N:** First, thanks to all our loyal readers and apologies for the length of time this update has taken. HoVis being the disorganised teenager takes full responsibility! Hope you like this chapter, enjoy!

**Disclaimer:** Neither of us own anything in this story apart from the characters of 'the other Malcolm' and the various nurses/doctors whom Malcolm encounters. And anyone can have them if they want!

**Chapter Seven**

There were a few things that Malcolm Reed, still stuck on Earth, really did not want to think about. Foremost amongst these was the fact that in two days time he would be going into hospital for an operation, the outcome of which could very well change his life.

Unfortunately, thanks to his well-meaning but ridiculously misguided friends and family on Earth, he barely had a chance to think of much else. His sister Madeline had come to visit, and was fussing over his every move.

"Madeline," he was forced to say eventually, through gritted teeth, "just calm down!"

But rather than quietly acquiescing, as he had expected his sweet-natured sister to do, Madeline placed her hands on her hips and glared down at him.

"No," she said flatly, rounding his chair and placing her hands on his shoulders. She squeezed. "Malcolm, you're as tense as anything."

Malcolm reached up and pushed her hands away, once more expecting her to let them fall – the perfect image of a calm, quiet young woman – but she stubbornly placed them once more upon his shoulders. Malcolm smiled, realising that there was nothing else he _could_ do.

"You're getting more like me every day, Madeline dear." He said lightly, and Madeline let her hands drop. She moved around so that she was facing him, and knelt down and gently, took his hand.

"I'm stubborn, like you, Malcolm." She said quietly. "Just not as often as you are. I'm stubborn when it matters. _You_ matter." She rose, breaking the moment. "You've a hospital appointment this afternoon, don't forget."

And with that she turned on her heel and strode out into the garden, leaving Malcolm quite alone.

888

"Mr Reed?" The young woman's voice broke through his grey thoughts as he sat in the hospital waiting room, and he looked up, discomfited to be met with the by now familiar sight of the nurse's smiling, pretty young face. "Dr Shaw can see you now."

Malcolm made no response, save to give a curt nod as the young woman took the handles of his chair and began to wheel him down the corridor. He felt the back of his neck reddening, as it had every other time he had made this ignominious journey, at the humiliation of being dependent on so young a _woman_. And yet he couldn't help but smile as he thought of what Trip would say to such an old-fashioned attitude...

"Are you alright, Lieutenant?" The nurse asked, her tone one of perfect nonchalance.

"I'm ver -" Malcolm paused in amazement as the last of the young woman's words sank in. "How did you know?"

He listened carefully for her reaction. He heard her let out a small sigh, but from the tone of it he was sure she was smiling.

"You aren't such a mystery you pretend to be, Malcolm Reed. I recognised your face from the news vids – all it took was a little... _checking_ of your files." She paused, and Malcolm heard her breath quicken, as though in nervousness. "I – I'm very sorry for what happened. You're a – a true hero. I mean, in the Expanse -"

"Please." Malcolm cut her off shortly, schooling his features as blank as he possibly could. "I'd rather not talk about it."

The rest of the journey was carried out in silence.

888

The meeting with the doctor was a short one, but by the time Malcolm came out of the cramped room he felt as though his limbs had been flooded with ice. It was a fear he had never experienced before: when out in space, any fear was a boost to his adrenaline, something to be _used_... but now, with the stark facts of his situation laid out before him, he could not help but let the fear enter his mind.

What if he never walked again? It was a thought he had never entertained until now, until the doctor uttered those awful words – fifty percent chance of success. _Fifty percent!_ He would never send a security team into a situation with such long odds, and yet here he was, waiting for two more days to pass until he placed his fate entirely in the hands of a group of men and women in white coats...

"Mr Reed?" The nurse's tone was tentative as she took the chair's handles once more, ready to take him back to the waiting room. "I – I thought you should know that – that I'll be assisting with your operation on Tuesday."

Malcolm glanced up at her, briefly, at her anxious expression, and nodded. The nurse took a deep, nervous breath.

"I'm in training, you see. To become a doctor." She began to wheel his chair down the corridor, very slowly.

"But that's -" Malcolm paused. "That's wonderful. Good luck." He heard her smile, and let a small smile cross his own face.

"Thanks." She said. "I just thought it would help for you to know that – that you won't be alone on Tuesday. I'll be there."

They were almost at the end of the corridor now, but Malcolm wished he could make the journey last a little longer so that he could fully appreciate the gift the young woman had just gave him. In her naivety she probably didn't understand it herself, but through her words he had given him something he had never run short of before, and yet desperately needed now. Courage. _She_ had given _him_ that. She reminded him of another young woman he knew. Hoshi... he hoped Hoshi was alright. That his namesake was taking good care of all of his _friends'_ safety.

"I don't even know your name." He said in surprise, as they entered the waiting room. The young nurse – soon to be doctor – glanced at the clock, then around the almost empty waiting room, and pulled up a seat beside him.

"My name is Charlie Tristen," she said, "and right now I've got a break. Do you want to talk?"

Malcolm raised his eyebrows. The girl was proving to be somewhat unpredictable – from tentative inquiries to shiningly confident insistences. Her name – short for Charlotte, he surmised – though, struck a bitter-sweet chord within him. Was his friend by such a similar name safe right now? He tried his best not to think of what Lieutenant Gregory was doing to his armoury. But at least Trip could look after himself... he hoped. It was with an internal sigh that he realised he was currently doing a thing Trip would warn him against – namely, 'bottling it up'. With a final sigh – he could not, after all, seem too eager to accept this eager girl's offer - he nodded.

"Very well." Tristen grinned at him, and then leant forward. Her expression was no longer cheery; it was serious, but softened by a very human concern which, Malcolm mused, must be the currency of all nurses. And even Vulcan ones, at that. He was roused from his memories (a voice within him whispered that they were all he had left, but he quelled it) by Tristen's first, gentle question.

"Do you want to tell me about Enterprise?"

Malcolm realised, with some surprise, that he did. And so Malcolm Reed, known throughout his life for talking only when necessary and even then with as few words as possible, began at last to unburden himself.

Little did he realise that, light-years away, his friends were in a very mortal danger.

888

"Rum?" Malcolm's reverie – brought on by his conversation (or more, counselling session, but he disliked to think of it as such) with the Tristen girl earlier on in the day – was broken by the gruff, ineloquent, but perfectly-to-the-point question. He glanced up to see his father holding out two small glasses and an unmarked bottle of clear – but, Malcolm knew from experience, extremely potent – liquid. Rum. The drink of all sea-men.

"Alright." He said softly, deciding that it wasn't quite the right moment to tell his father that he had detested the stuff from childhood, and had always exchanged his 'tot' for either water or, when he got older, scotch or beer whenever he was aboard one of his father's naval ships. He took in Stuart Reed's pursed, careful expression as he poured out the liquid. No; definitely not the right time. He took his glass and, without a flicker of a grimace, downed it. He wasn't sure, but he thought that for a moment he saw his father's lips twitch as he did so. He set the empty glass down as his father settled into a chair – no wheels on _his_ – opposite him. The older man swirled the liquid in his cup before taking a long, slow draught, savouring every drop. After a long moment, he set it down, and looked up at Malcolm.

"You know," he said casually, "I never really did like the stuff."

Malcolm almost restrained his laugh, but he found he was unable to. It was a laugh of surprise and pleasure, and when it was finished he found a weight had been taken from his chest.

"Thankyou." He said. And to think he had once thought that he and his father did not understand each other. Stuart Reed nodded curtly, comprehending perfectly Malcolm's meaning. Thankyou; for making me laugh when I needed it most, thankyou; for letting me come home. Thankyou.

Then, Stuart Reed gave a gruff cough – the kind of gruff cough Malcolm could only remember him giving on days like his wedding anniversary, when he was embarrassed by his wife's pleasure at the flowers he had bought, or before he said or did something uncharacteristically sentimental or emotional. It was a cough Malcolm knew he himself gave sometimes – the cough which preceded the lowering of his ever-present stiff upper lip, and the revelation of the emotions behind his mask. It was a cough which his experiences on Enterprise, and the people on her, had made him use a lot.

"No," Stuart Reed said, not looking at Malcolm, "thank you."

At least one thing was beginning to heal in this hopeless situation.

888

**A/N:** Please read and review... and we will try and update quickly!!!


	8. Chapter Eight

**A/N:** Hello all and thanks for your reviews for chapter seven – we find them all really encouraging! Hope you enjoy chapter nine.

**Disclaimer:** Even combined we own nothing in the way of Enterprise or its crew...

**Chapter Eight**

Trip sat at his desk, in his quarters, trying to muster the courage to write to Malcolm. He knew his friend was scheduled for surgery in two days and he didn't want to let them go by without word from him.

After passing out on the pod he had woken up on a biobed, disoriented and sick as a dog. It wasn't a pleasant afternoon, for any of them. Hoshi and MG had immediately appeared to be the most seriously affected. Phlox had carted them off to a secluded area of sickbay and left Archer, Müller and he in the care of medics, whom he had thoroughly instructed. The three of them had experienced difficulty breathing, and that had been scary as hell. But after being on oxygen for a few hours, their symptoms had decreased, to the point that by evening they had been released and ordered to rest in their quarters. Their lungs still hurt a little from the toxic substance they had inhaled, and their voices were a bit raspy, but at least they were going to be all right. Hoshi and MG, on the other hand…

Trip sprang up from his chair and started to pace his room. Whenever his thoughts wandered to Hoshi, lying in sickbay, he just couldn't keep still, worry made him fidgety.

The Doc had looked quite concerned, even though in fine Phlox tradition he hadn't totally given up his cheerful tone. "Ensign Sato's and Lieutenant Gregory's lungs have suffered more damage," he had said. "They will have to undergo regenerative treatments, but their condition remains serious, for the moment."

Phlox's words had kept ringing through Trip's mind for a long time. _Their condition remains serious._ He ruffled his short hair in a nervous gesture. If Malcolm had been with them he was sure this wouldn't have happened. He stopped and grimaced - perhaps he was beginning to do with Malcolm what people generally did with the dear departed - create a perfect image of them. He cringed at the thought. Malcolm was not dead, dammit!

Trip sat down at his desk again and began to dictate to the computer. Somehow if he heard his voice he could pretend he was actually talking to his friend.

"Computer, start recording --- _Hi there, lazybones_…"

He paused and bit his lip. Wrong words. Besides, his grating voice had made that sound all wrong.

"Computer, delete that…"

He straightened his shoulders and tried to draw in a deep breath but gave up mid-way, when a stabbing pain in his side made him flinch. It took him a few moments of shallow breathing to recover.

"Computer, start recording --- _Hello, Malcolm, how have you been?_"

_Great, got anythin' more intelligent to ask, you dimwit?_ He silently reproached himself.

"Computer, delete that."

Trip huffed in frustration. But he wasn't going to give up. He got up from the chair and went to stretch out on the bed. Intertwining his hands behind his head, he closed his eyes and pictured Malcolm in his mind's eye.

"Computer, start recording --- _Hi, Malcolm. Sorry if I sound as if I had barbed wire for dinner. Wonderful voice, don't you think? It's a souvenir I brought back from our away mission - tell ya all about it in a moment. Perhaps I should've typed this letter instead of recordin' it, and spared ya the sufferin', but I'm bein' a little selfish here - actually liked the idea of talkin' to you, so I guess you'll just have to grit your teeth – you're good at that, in any case, if I recall._

_Alright, alright, I know you want to know what happened to us. Hey, you know me, I tend to stray _--- Computer, pause."

Trip rubbed his eyes. This was delicate. He had to say enough without saying too much, and he had to do it well. Malcolm was surprisingly perceptive, and he'd only add to his worries if he let him suspect that he wasn't telling the whole truth. Because he couldn't say anything about Hoshi – no, he definitely wouldn't tell him that Hoshi was seriously injured in sickbay.

"Computer, resume recording --- _So, first of all, we're all fine. That's so you don't start worryin'_."

Trip smirked. "Computer, delete that last sentence." Knowing Malcolm, he'd immediately read through that.

"Computer, resume recording --- _Well, as you know we were goin' to board that vessel, the one that had sent out a distress call. It was an eerie experience, let me tell you. We found the crew all dead, although none of them had any injuries, it looked like… like death had come and caught them by surprise. Hoshi… well, you know how she likes that kind of thing – not that it was at all pleasant, mind you. But you'd've been proud of her, Malcolm. She carried herself well. _

"_Anyway, we got to the bridge, and there… that's were we ran into trouble. There was this kind of… ball – we had seen quite a few all over the ship – and… well, as soon as MG picked it up… he must've shaken it or somethin', 'cause it began to give out this noxious smoke. We started chokin' on it, and feelin' nauseous, and we had to rush back to the pod and fly back to the ship, and into the care of our good Doc. Now we are better and resting in our quarters. T'Pol says it's pretty sure it was that substance that killed the alien crew. From what we've gathered, it appears those balls with their deathly content were transported aboard the ship and those people never had a chance... had barely enough time to send out an automated distress call. Anyhow, now you know why I sound like I do_. --- Computer, pause."

Trip rubbed a tired hand over his closed eyes. So far, so good. He would replay the recording before sending it, just to make sure, but he thought he had done a decent job of recounting their adventure – well, _mis_adventure – in neutral tones. Hell, he had even refrained from calling MG a few, well-chosen and totally disrespectful names. He and Malcolm could do that together, once Mal was back on Enterprise and Hoshi was out of danger. Malcolm, of course, would know it hadn't been quite the stroll he had described; but he wouldn't suspect it had actually been such a close call. Trip slowly heaved a careful breath.

"Computer, resume recording --- _Now, since those aliens are not in the Vulcan database and we don't have the faintest idea where they came from, the Capt'n has to decide what to do, whether to board their ship again to try and find out how to contact their home world, or leave._

_But enough talking about us. I'm still waitin' for that letter of yours. You promised you'd be in touch, remember? So why don't ya make a little effort and keep that promise? I know you've never been good at talkin' about yourself. But I thought that had changed a little lately… Well, alright, Mal. If you prefer to keep things to yourself, I'll respect that. It's just that… you know, I wouldn't mind hearin' from you - I'm selfish, I told ya. _

_So… just a few hours left, huh? Remember, happy endings. Don't you go all broodin' on me, ok? I'm sure you know this already, but we'll all be thinkin' of you on that day. I really doubt anybody will be focussed enough to do their jobs straight – hope we don't run into any bad guys! _

_Well, I'd better give my voice a rest now, before it gives out on me altogether. Wouldn't want Phlox to attach some of his weird creatures to my throat or somethin'. _

_I'll be in touch again soon_ --- Computer, end recording."

Trip felt emotionally drained. _How difficult can it be to talk to a friend?_ He thought in slight irritation. This was Malcolm, his buddy Mal. But the fact that he had not heard from him from the day Reed had left the ship – except for that short, laconic, letter – made him feel anxious. He turned on his side and put a hand under his pillow. He wanted to replay the recording and give it to Hos… _damn!_ To whoever was manning communications at the moment, so that it could be sent out as soon as possible, but he felt so totally exhausted that he couldn't muster the energy to get up. It wasn't long before his breathing had got deep and even, and he had slipped into unconsciousness.

888

**A/N:** Please read and review!


	9. Chapter Nine

Hello, this is volley. I know, it's been a long time... I am sorry. Here is another chapter for those of you who still remember what was going on in this story:-)

I hope you'll forgive us... and leave a review.

**Chapter nine**

Perhaps Trip had refrained from calling MG any harsh names but Malcolm, upon listening to Trip's letter back on Earth, felt perfectly justified in letting loose a short but perfectly-chosen string of curses.

His mother looked up from reading the newspaper and spared him a mild glance.

"Well," Malcolm said suddenly, feeling, ridiculously, like a scolded schoolboy with his cheeks reddening, "You heard that. Bloody man doesn't know how to do his job."

He had been downstairs when Trip's message had arrived and had been unable to bear the thought of even attempting to find some privacy and, anyway, his mother was a good listener. If a little prudish at times for a woman who had married a sailor.

"You mean _your_ job." Mary Reed's tone was as mild and as complacent as ever, and Malcolm resisted the urge to sigh. As ever, she reached right into the heart of matters.

"Yes." He said begrudgingly. "My job. He makes a damn mockery of the post of _security_ officer, placing the crew – and the captain, no less! – in severe danger."

"Perhaps." Mary's voice was calm, a habit she had picked up from years of placating both her husband and son after furious rows within the household. She was good at what she did; counsellor, mother, wife. "And less of the swearing, please; as you are always keen to remind us, you are not a sailor, so please stop talking like one."

Malcolm looked up sharply, quite prepared to be insulted by her words, when he realised her eyes were full of silent laughter. And, as a fine tactician, he was always prepared to admit defeat. "Very well," he said fairly, the flare of his anger gone, "very well."

§§§

Phlox heard the sound of the sickbay doors opening and glanced at the clock. A few minutes past oh-five-hundred. He frowned and peeked from behind the privacy curtain around Ensign Sato's bed.

"Commander," he greeted the tired-looking man with a knowing grin. "Having trouble sleeping?"

Trip passed a hand through his already dishevelled hair. It looked as if the man had got out of bed and slipped into a uniform without passing by the shower.

Tucker shrugged. "I caught a few hours," he drawled. "But what with Malcolm and Hoshi here, I'm strung up tighter than a violin string, Doc."

Phlox chuckled softly. "Let me give you something to relax," he said, taking a step towards the medicine counter.

"Ah… actually, if it's ok with you, I wouldn't mind just hangin' around for a while." Phlox watched the Commander cast a troubled look to the biobed where Hoshi lay, partly visible behind the half-drawn curtain. "Perhaps if I sat with Hosh and talked to her…"

"I have Ensign Sato deeply sedated until her lungs have healed sufficiently. I'm afraid your talking to her is not going to help her much, Commander," Phlox said gently.

"Maybe, but it's gonna help me," Tucker replied, pinching his nose. "Make me feel like I'm bein' there at least for one of my two friends in need," he added softly.

Phlox smiled. He controlled his lips carefully – he didn't think Commander Tucker would appreciate one of his face-splitting Denobulan smiles right now – but neither did he want to give up on his natural cheerfulness. He knew the second friend in need wouldn't be Lieutenant Gregory, hidden a few feet away behind another privacy curtain, but Malcolm Reed, about to undergo very delicate surgery on Earth.

Recognising that the man in front of him would benefit more from spending some time with Sato than from a dose of sleep-inducing meds, he stepped aside and drew the privacy curtain a little more open.

"No news of Mr. Reed yet, uhm?" Phlox asked gently as he ushered Tucker inside.

Trip took a deep breath. "Nah," he said, his eyes fixed on Sato's face. "I can't think what he must be goin' through these days, with the operation loomin' nearer..."

Phlox raised his eyebrows. "Mr. Reed is quite resilient. I am sure that…"

"The damn man has shut me out," Tucker interrupted him almost angrily. Then he added in a pained voice, "And no matter how resilient, he may be left paralysed, Doc. I wish I was on Earth to help him go through this."

"He's not paralysed yet, Commander," Phlox said with quiet conviction. "Let's not forget that." He saw Tucker smirk.

"Yeah."

Phlox gave him an understanding look. "I'll be around, if you need me," he offered. Then he closed the curtain around the Commander and Ensign, and went to tend to his menagerie.

Trip stood still for a long moment, letting his eyes wander over Hoshi. He was reminded of those fairy tales, Sleeping Beauty, or Snow White. If it wasn't for that mask over her mouth and nose, administering the lung-regenerative medication, she would have looked simply asleep; which wasn't far from the truth, Trip reminded himself: his friend was sedated, not in a coma, she was simply _sedated_.

Finally, Trip went to sit on the chair near her bed. After a moment he reached out tentatively and touched her hand, closing his fingers over it and holding it gently. "I'm sorry, Hosh," he murmured. "I wasn't able to look after ya properly. I'm not half as good as a certain Lieutenant we know." He leaned his forehead tiredly over her arm. "Be a good girl and pull through this, will ya? Do it for Malcolm. He needs us both."

When Phlox came to check on Sato, almost one hour later, Commander Tucker was still there, holding the Ensign's hand.

§§§

It wasn't before the next evening that Phlox decided Sato could be brought back to consciousness again. Lieutenant Gregory had already been weaned off the sedative and had even uttered a few words. 'How did we get out?' He had croaked out with a frown. Archer had bit his lip to stop himself from barking back a sarcastic reply. After counting to five he had told the man what had happened after MG had lost consciousness. He barely restrained himself from informing him right then that, whether Lieutenant Reed recovered or not, his days on Enterprise were numbered. He had already filed a request for transfer with Starfleet Command. Out of his good heart, he would let the Lieutenant get a little better, before dealing him that blow.

Archer paced the corridor outside sickbay, waiting for Phlox to tell him that they could see Hoshi. Trip was leaning with his back against the wall, seemingly lost in his thoughts. He looked the ghost of himself. Pale and tired. Archer doubted the man had slept much since they had come back from that fateful away mission. Not that he himself had found much relief in dreamland. With Hoshi injured and Malcolm's surgery drawing near, he felt a tension that could compare only with what he had experienced in the Expanse.

"Capt'n, would ya mind?" Trip drawled all of a sudden. "Ya're makin' me dizzy."

Archer stopped and turned about to face him. He smirked. "You know it helps me. How can you stay so still?"

Just then the sickbay doors opened and a very happy Denobulan face appeared. "Captain, Commander," Phlox greeted. "Ensign Sato is awake. You may see her now, for a few minutes. I am glad to say her lungs will make a full recovery."

Archer's face relaxed into a smile of relief. "Thank God." He followed the Doctor with Trip to Hoshi's bed.

"Ensign," Archer said, clasping Hoshi's hand. "It's so good to know you'll be fine."

"Good girl, Hosh," Trip echoed. "I knew you'd make it."

Hoshi broke into a faint smile. "Good to be back," she wheezed.

"Just rest and get better," Archer said, patting her arm. "The Commander here will keep the comm. system in perfect working order in the meantime."

"Thank you," Phlox said meaningfully, shepherding the visitors away. "My patient, indeed, needs to rest."

"I'll come by later, Ensign," Archer said warmly, as he was going out.

"Trip." Hoshi reached out and grabbed Trip's arm, stopping him before he could leave.

"You ok?" Trip asked in concern.

Hoshi nodded. "Malcolm?" she croaked out.

Trip's eyes softened. "No news yet. But ya know what they say… no news is good news."

"Commander," Phlox prompted.

"Don't worry," Trip said, leaving. "If I receive anything, you'll be the first to know."

As Trip walked out, Hoshi gave him the ghost of a smile, and he felt a slow relief. At least _one_ of their number was on the way to recovery.

TBC


	10. Chapter Ten

**A/N:** Well... we're back! If you want to throw anything at us for taking so long, please throw them at HoVis (being a teenager means she is naturally unorganised...). Sorry sorry sorry!!! Anyway, the end is in sight, with this being the penultimate chapter! We hope you enjoy it!

**A/N 2:** (Update) We have posted a new section in this chapter, with Malcolm coming out of hospital, for the reviewers who commented at the sudden leap from the message to the end of the story! We hope it's ok.

**Disclaimer:** Neither of us own _Enterprise_ or anything to do with it.

**Chapter Ten**

The buzz pierced Trip's dreams slowly and painfully. In his fuzziness, he vaguely entertained the thought of burying his head under the pillow, but the sound rang out again, insistent, jolting him into full consciousness. In a second he was at his desk, pressing on the comm. button.

"Tucker," he mumbled thickly, passing a hand over his sleepy eyes. This had got to be an emergency, he mused, glancing at the hour: it was 3 am.

"Sorry to wake you, Trip, but I thought you'd want me to," Archer's dark voice replied.

Trip's heart skipped a beat. "Malcolm?" he heard himself stutter.

"I got a call from his sister." There was a pause. "Why don't you come down to my quarters?" Archer then suggested, gently.

Trip scrunched his eyes shut. "On my way," he said tautly, cutting the communication off.

Trip grabbed the uniform he had thrown on the desk chair, and pulled it on directly over his skivvies, without a thought for the black undershirt.

No, no, no, this could _not_ be happening. Something was wrong. As far as he knew Malcolm's surgery wasn't due for another day or so, but Jon's tone had been too… Damn!

He shoved his bare feet into his boots and flew out of his cabin.

Archer opened the door the moment Trip pressed the bell to announce his arrival. In sweat pants and T-shirt, looking dishevelled, the Captain ushered him in without a word.

Walking inside, Trip barely registered Porthos's soft yelp of welcome. "Capt'n?" he urged in a tight voice, turning around.

"Malcolm's been rushed into surgery," Archer replied, blowing out a tense breath.

"What happened?"

"Madeline told me one of the pre-surgery checks revealed some worrisome damage to his spinal cord that hadn't been exposed by previous examinations; the doctors thought that every hour of delay could be crucial to the outcome of the operation."

Trip looked into his Captain's green eyes. So many times they had given him strength, or the self-assurance he had needed; now he could only read his same worry and confusion in them. He let himself fall on Archer's bed, not caring if it wasn't quite the proper thing to do in one's C.O.'s quarters. Jon was a friend, as well as his Captain. He would understand.

"When will we know…?" He faltered and swallowed hard, past the lump that had formed in his throat. Things had happened faster than expected, catching him off an already precarious balance.

"Madeline promised to let us know the moment he's out of the operating theatre," Archer replied, going to his cabinet and taking out a bottle of Scotch. "She said the surgery was going to last a few hours. Five… six… To tell you the truth, I can't remember. My mind was… elsewhere." He poured them both a drink and offered Trip his glass.

"What the hell," Tip mumbled as he took it, trying to sound philosophical and failing miserably, "We knew he had to go through it. The sooner the better, in a way."

Archer raised his eyebrows. "Yeah."

They sat there, drinking and just wanting to be in each other's silent company.

When morning came, Trip went back to his quarters to take a shower and put on a fresh uniform. He debated whether he should inform Hoshi about the news, and decided he really should. But when he got to sickbay, she was asleep, and Phlox advised him it was far better to let her rest than burden her with something she could do nothing about but worry. So he went to Engineering, to bury his nose in work. Or pretend to.

Time ticked by, excruciatingly slow. Five hours had passed, since that wake-up call; then the sixth went by… and the seventh…

"Commander, are you all right?"

Trip turned to see Rostov looking at him with a frown. "Uh? Yeah. What's up, Mike?" The man had probably been standing there for a few minutes talking to him, for all he knew. His mind had blanked.

"I… ran the diagnostic. As you asked, Sir," Rostov replied hesitantly. "Everything checks out all right."

"Sure, of course. Thanks," Trip replied a little self-consciously. It wasn't like him to be distracted on the job. Well, it wasn't particularly smart, or safe, to be distracted on the job in Engineering.

With a sigh, Trip went to his deputy, Hannah Hess. "I think… I'd better take a break," he told her, pinching the bridge of his nose. He knew Hess would understand; the crew may not be privy to the fact that Malcolm was already undergoing surgery, but they knew it was imminent and how worried Trip was about his friend. "I'll be back in a little while, Lieutenant. Hold the fort for me."

"No problem, Chief," Hannah replied gently, with an empathetic smile.

When he closed the Engineering hatch behind him, Trip wondered for a moment where he should go. He considered the mess hall; but he wasn't hungry. His quarters… nah, he wasn't in the mood to be alone. So he made his way to the bridge. He needed to feel his friends around him, at least those who were still standing.

§§§

"There is a call from Earth, Captain," the Ensign at the communication console, a young Nordic-looking man, announced. "It's from England."

Trip jumped to his feet. Archer was already on the move. "Put it through to my ready room," he called over his shoulder. He didn't see Travis silently question T'Pol with his eyes, and the Vulcan Officer's similarly silently reply.

Madeline Reed's face was lined. She looked as if she hadn't slept for days. Her lips, however, were slightly curved upwards, which made Trip's heart leap. The news couldn't be too bad if Madeline was smiling.

"Miss Reed," Archer greeted her.

"Madeline, Captain," she corrected him, her smile becoming slightly coy. "After all that Malcolm has told me about you, I feel I could be your… niece." Her accent was familiarly clipped, and Trip suddenly realised how much he had been missing it.

Trip watched Archer's own lips break into a smile – this one open and friendly. Undoubtedly Jon was gratified to know that their usually reticent Armoury Officer had told his family about him.

"I hope the things he said weren't too bad," the Captain quipped.

The smile reached Madeline's eyes. "I've never heard my brother speak of anybody the way he speaks of you, Captain," she said. "He holds you in a lot of respect. You and Commander Tucker," she added, shifting her gaze briefly to Trip, "Have a special place in Malcolm's heart; which is, let me assure you, not very roomy when it comes to things like that."

"How did the surgery go?" Archer asked, turning serious.

Madeline blinked. "As well as could be expected, thank God." She bit her lip, looking as if she was reining in a surge of emotion. "The doctors say he should make a full recovery, although he'll need a couple of months of physiotherapy," she added after a short pause, in a heart-felt voice.

Trip felt himself go weak with relief.

"That's great news," Archer said, blowing out a breath he'd been holding.

"It is," Madeline agreed, averting her eyes in a Malcolm-like way. She looked up at the monitor again, hesitating. "I'm not sure it is my place to ask, Captain, but… do you think you will be able to have Malcolm reinstated in his position? Starfleet, Enterprise is his life and…" She faltered.

"Let them try and take him away from me," Archer said with a threatening frown. "Don't worry, Madeline, I'll get him back. I only want the best. Besides, Enterprise is not the same without him," he added, and Trip watched a full smile blossom finally on the woman's face.

§§§

Trip burst into sickbay with a spring in his step, and Phlox shot him a reproachful look.

"Gently, Commander," he said, making a meaningful gesture with his hands, "I have a patient resting."

"Not for long, Doc," Trip replied, ignoring the horrified look he received. "The news I'm bringin' will be better for Hoshi than any amount of sleep, or any meds you can give her."

Phlox's scowl smoothed out gradually. "Mr. Reed...?" he asked.

"Malcolm…?" floated out from behind a drawn privacy curtain.

Trip walked up to it and drew it open. Hoshi was sitting up in her bed, leaning back on outstretched arms. Meeting her wide eyes, he made his eyebrows dance.

"Surgery went just fine. He should be back with us in a couple of months."

§§§

He walked out of hospital. On crutches, perhaps, but he still walked. Charlie Tristen went with him to the exit, and as he glanced at her Malcolm realised that she could not keep the smile from her face.

"Was operating on me _that_ wonderful, Miss Tristen?" He asked dryly, catching himself before he added a rank to her name. Soon he wouldn't have to worry about that. He would be back on _Enterprise_ within the month.

"It was alright." The nurse looked at him with wide eyes, her smile still teasing at the corners of her mouth. "Hopefully I'll be qualified to start _doing_ operations like that within the month."

"Instead of wiping the blood away, you mean?" Usually, he would shy away from speaking in such macabre terms to a young lady, but they both knew that blood was part of their respective jobs. As was saving lives. Tristen gave a short laugh and another smile, but Malcolm nodded soberly. "Thankyou."

"For what?" She seemed reluctant to accept such solemnity. "Wiping the blood away?"

"For talking to me when I -" Malcolm began, but Tristen held up a hand.

"I told you I've read the news feeds, didn't I?"

Malcolm nodded, wondering where the conversation was going and feeling ever so slightly annoyed that his rare attempt at showing his gratitude had been spoilt. Then he remembered that he was standing on his own two legs, partially due to the young woman by his side, and acquiesced to her decision to take control of the conversation. He nodded, and this time it was Tristen who became sober.

"Then you know that _I_ know what you did out there, last year in the Expanse." She held up her hand again, for her was about to protest that he had done little compared to the rest of the crew. "And no false modesty, please." She cocked her head to one side, surveying him calmly. "Consider any help I might have given you as reparation in kind." Then she smiled, the mischief back. "And try not to darken our doorway again!"

Malcolm let out a laugh, knowing full well that he would not have spoken with such freedom two months ago.

"I'll try not to," he promised, before taking her hand. For a moment he made to shake it, but then, if only to delight in the fact that he _could_, he bent down and kissed it. When he straightened up he realised that the girl had flushed a deep red, and also that his parents and sister were standing less than three feet away. He cleared his throat.

"Well, good -" Once again, however, Tristen stopped his words.

"I don't do goodbyes. See you around... Lieutenant." And with that, she turned and walked over to another patient. No, Malcolm corrected himself._ A_ patient. He, after all, was now discharged. He turned to his parents. His father wore the slightest of smiles, one he could only recognise because he knew full well that it was one he himself often used.

"Well?" The older man asked, and Malcolm raised an eyebrow.

"What does it look like?" He said, looking pointedly up and down at himself. "I'm looking you in the eye, aren't I?"

"Not quite," his father said dryly, and Malcolm snorted, remembering that it had been a childhood ambition of his to grow taller than his father. His genes, however, had worked out against him. Strange that he should remember these little things – these things which made up a relationship – only now. Looking closely, he realised that there were dark shadows underneath his father's eyes - underneath _all_ of their eyes - and felt oddly humbled. Whilst he had been unconscious (he had been sedated almost immediately upon the worsening of his condition, he remembered with a wince), they, his family, had been _worrying_. He wondered how many sleepless nights they had spent whilst he was in the Expanse. Had he been selfish, then, to think they didn't care?

His mother stepped forward and pulled him into a crushing embrace. He returned it warmly, before remembering that they were in a room full of people and drew back awkwardly. Mary rolled her eyes in a look that was rather reminiscent of one Trip Tucker he knew. Then he remembered.

"Trip - ? Have you spoken to -"

"Don't worry." Madeline stepped forward and laid her hands on his shoulders. "I spoke to them. Captain Archer said -" her lips quirked upwards " – something along the lines of 'let them try and take him away from me' when I asked if you would be able to return to _Enterprise_ after you'd made a full recovery."

"Ah yes." Malcolm rolled his eyes heavenward with mock annoyance. "I forget I've still got another month or so to go, being poked and prodded by a load of bloody physiotherapists." And perhaps a month after that before he was actually fit enough to pass any physical exam for Starfleet.

Madeline laughed, before squeezing his shoulders.

"No tension." She said. "They must have operated that out of you as well."

Malcolm raised his eyebrows.

"Oh, just you wait. Another month living at home with me and it'll be _you_ whose shoulders are tense..."

Maddie shot him an appraising glance, before shaking her head with a laugh and linking her arm through his. The four began to walk out of the hospital.

"We've got a lot of talking to do." Madeline announced suddenly, and Malcolm glanced at her.

"Haven't we done enough this last week?" He asked lightly, and Madeline thumped him on the shoulder.

"I've been wanting to do _that_ all week but you looked too pitiful to do it to." She said bluntly, and Malcolm realised that she was more of a Reed than he had thought. "I want to hear more about _Enterprise_. This Hoshi, for one..." His mother and Madeline exchanged loaded looks.

"Oh, bloody hell..." Malcolm said, and started to talk.

888

Archer took a great deal of pleasure in calling the incompetent MG into his office one morning, three days after learning of Malcolm's hopeful prognosis following the surgery. The bumbling armoury officer entered hesitantly, his expression a little wistful. Perhaps he wasn't as stupid as they all thought after all, thought Archer – he knew exactly what was going to happen now.

"Lieutenant," Archer nodded, indicating that he sit. MG attempted some of his old charm, a smile wavering across his face, but didn't quite manage to pull it off.

"C'mon, Captain, lets not stand on..." he trailed off, before finishing squeakily; "...formality?" He flashed a hopeful grin. Archer shook his head, slowly, and it was almost like watching a balloon deflate; Gregory's grin faded and his shoulders slumped. "I've messed up big time, haven't I, Captain?" He said at last.

Archer started. It seemed inconceivable that it was only _now_, when his departure from Enterprise was approved by Starfleet, that MG should start showing signs of intelligence and even likeability.

"I'm afraid you have, Lieutenant," he said solemnly, and then sighed at the look of crushing defeat on MG's face. "Though it's not entirely your fault. I think it would be asking a bit much of anyone to try and fill Malcolm's shoes."

MG nodded sadly. "Malcolm Reed. I've heard a lot about him. We may have the same name but I bet that's all we share." He shook his head, and for a moment he looked despairing. "Though maybe he can tell me how to get these screams out of my head."

Archer was shocked as he reflected on one uncomfortable home truth about armoury officers; a good one had to be a killer. Starfleet should _never_ have sent him someone who wasn't psychologically able to deal with the fall-out. They should also have sent him someone who knew how to follow orders, but Archer's sympathy was a little too strong for him to rub salt in MG's evident wounds. But MG wasn't done yet.

"I'm only here 'cos I'm expected to be." He admitted pathetically. "My Pa was a boomer, a tactical officer, and everyone expected me to follow his footsteps." He shrugged. "Pa helped Starfleet a lot in the early days, so he had the connections he needed... I never admitted to him that I always wanted to be the ship's chef."

The admission was made in total seriousness and Archer knew that he would only hurt Gregory's feelings if he let himself laugh. He had a short coughing fit before he took a deep breath and responded with similar solemnity:

"When you return to Earth, Lieutenant Gregory, I'll make sure that I recommend to Starfleet that you be made just that."

Gregory grinned. "So Lieutenant Reed's better?" He asked, grinning without an ounce of bitterness. "That sure is good. Everyone's morale's been down like nobody's business since I arrived." His eyes widened. "I only hope that's from missing _him_, and not disliking _me_."

Archer assured him it was the former and said that since Müller could look after duties in the armoury until Malcolm's return, MG was welcome to go and join chef in the galley and get some on-the-job experience.

MG gave a huge grin and bounded out like an oversized puppy.

Archer sat back and shook his head. Forced into the wrong job due to his parent's expectations... he sounded a bit like Malcolm after all. At least now, just like Malcolm, he had found his own path to walk upon.

After this solemn reflection Archer sat back and laughed quietly. MG would make a good chef. And his armoury officer was finally coming home.

§§§

**A/N:** Only one more chapter to go – the epilogue – in which we finally put things right on Enterprise once and for all. At least Malcolm's better! Was all the angst worth it? Please leave a review and tell us what you think!


	11. Chapter Eleven

**A/N:** So, here it is! Chapter Eleven and the Epilogue of "Ne Cede Malis" (though posted in separate chapters for neatness' sake), the first (and probably only) joint venture between HoVis and volley. Don't forget to have a look at volley's individual work, though HoVis is currently being a bit of a traitor to the fandom and playing in the _Superman_ fandom instead (it's the dark haired, quiet characters that do it…!). Many thanks to everyone for sticking with this, we hope you enjoyed it – every up and down! – as much as we did!

_Thanks to:_** Greysummers, Therealpenny, Romanse, RoaringMice, Sirnonenath, JadziaKathryn, IcthusFish, Begoogled, ILoveObi-Wan, firebirdgirl, pawpad, Boleyn, The Libran Iniquity, jazzy, Joy, General Kunama, Melethwen, Cally73, Sage5, Sita Z, Fury Seven Kerrigan and Lady Rainbow **for their support and words of encouragement. We hope you enjoy the next two chapters. Thanks for reading!

**Disclaimer:** Nope, not even after this story has Paramount agreed to give us the rights… shame! Then again, Malcolm would get injured every other week if we fans were in control!

**Chapter Eleven**

Malcolm felt, ridiculously, like a nervous schoolboy again. They were standing at the edge of the landing bay, waiting for the Vulcans – it was always the Vulcans, Malcolm thought – to send down a shuttlepod to take him back to the very same ship which had brought him to Earth in the first place. He did not know what to say to his father, for he knew that any overt display of emotion would be unnatural for either of them, and yet to say an emotionless goodbye made a mockery of what a farewell represented. It was like the Vulcans, exploring the mysteries of science without the passion which made the mysteries so alluring.

"Dad," he said at last, only realising as he said it what he was going to ask, "do you approve? Now, do you approve?"

His father snorted, and Malcolm was aware that his mother and his sister (long-suffering observers of the strained father-son relationship) exchanged exasperated glances.

"I know why you're returning. I wish you weren't, but that's not because I don't approve, it's because I don't want them to be bringing you home in a box next time."

As a child, Malcolm had always found his father's blunt statements harsh and biting. Now he found them refreshing, against the gentle 'hospital speak' he had endured over the past few months. Malcolm decided to return honesty with honesty.

"When I was a boy," he said, "I hated you for never being there. You were always away, on a ship." He met his father's grey eyes. "I understand now."

"So do I." Stuart Reed said, and Malcolm knew that they had made all the goodbye they needed. Anyway, this time it wasn't goodbye, for it wasn't final or absolute. The comms were always open on _Enterprise_.

His mother achieved her farewell more simply.

"Keep in touch," she said, absorbing him in a musky embrace. Malcolm nodded. He had said he would keep in touch before. The difference was that this time, he meant it.

Madeline smiled as he turned to her, but merely squeezed his hand. She had an element of aloofness in her too, Malcolm had found. How was it that after over three decades of life he had only just begun to know his family?

"Your Captain Archer is quite good-looking," she said lightly, "don't suppose you could put us in touch?"

Malcolm laughed, though he repressed a shudder at just how awkward it would be if he ever had to have the 'protective big brother' discussion with Archer... his commanding officer. As he moved to leave, his father handed him a small bottle. Malcolm glanced down and raised an eyebrow.

"Rum?" His father nodded, his lips twitching.

"Don't worry. I don't expect you to drink it."

As his father spoke, Malcolm heard the rumble of the shuttlepod behind him, and turned to see a familiar figure stepping down onto the tarmac.

"Shi'tal." He nodded his greeting, careful not to smile too widely. The small, mischievous side of his mind whispered that there was the hint of a smile at the edges of _her_ mouth, too, but the part of him that had more in common with the Vulcan inside him quelled it with as much dignity as it could muster. He turned with a smile to his family.

"I think Shi'tal would say that a goodbye would be illogical, since we intend to see each other again anyway." He looked at his father, and saw the lines of worry etched onto his face. Long years of stress in the navy – years which he knew his father would have exchanged for nothing in heaven or earth – had put some of those lines there, but Malcolm knew that most of them were there because _he_, Malcolm, was making exactly the same decisions as his father had. He was going back, to a career that was dangerous and that had almost killed him. Was he repeating the _mistakes_ of his father? "I _do_ intend to come back." He added suddenly, and his father nodded. "And I usually do what I intend to."

"I know." His father said. "You're a Reed, after all."

As they walked back across the tarmac, Shi'tal turned to him, a slight frown on her face. She had not said she was glad to see him better, or given any indication that she was happy, or sad, or anything in between, but Malcolm – who had spent the months reading his father, who was almost as impervious as the Vulcan beside him – had the sneaking suspicion that she was not a little pleased to see him. Or at least, he hoped so, for he was glad to see her; before she had represented the closing of doors, yet now she represented the re-opening of them. He had come to Earth and found that he had a home there after all, yet now he was returning to the home he had chosen for himself – _Enterprise_. The two were not, he had found, mutually exclusive.

"Your father's statement was illogical." Shi'tal said, her perplexity clear. "Your strong character has nothing to do with your surname."

Malcolm smiled.

"I know, Shi'tal," he said. "I understand."

He did understand. And not just about Vulcans. Perhaps getting injured wasn't the bad thing it had seemed at the time – not, of course, that he intended to make a habit of it.

"How are you, Shi'tal?" He asked, impulsively wanting to know if she had learned from him, too. She looked at him with the ghost of a Vulcan smile.

"I am... fine, thankyou."

"Good."

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	12. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

Archer stepped forward, his hand outstretched, a broad smile on his face. That smile was returned but, to his surprise, when Malcolm Reed took his hand he not only shook it warmly but, awkwardly, allowed his captain a brief embrace. Perhaps, Archer mused, Malcolm had travelled in more than just light-years between his accident and his blessed return to the _Enterprise_.

"Welcome back, Lieutenant."

"Captain," he said, nodding formally, before being barrelled into a bear hug by Trip.

"It's good to have you back," Trip said, and Malcolm laughed. Archer and Trip both exchanged a look. Perhaps Malcolm _had_ eased up a bit, at that. "God knows we've missed ya."

"I'm glad to learn I haven't been entirely usurped." There was a tone of ruefulness in his voice at that, and Archer wondered exactly _what_ words Trip had used to describe the hapless Gregory in his letters to Malcolm.

It was at that point that Malcolm Gregory arrived, a duffel bag over his shoulder. He grinned broadly, hopelessly unaware as ever of any animosity.

"Lieutenant," he said, "I kept your post warm for you. Glad you're back."

Trip shot Archer an exasperated look. Utterly incompetent as he was, Gregory utterly meant his words. _Nice guy, not very good officer_, Archer would probably later diplomatically decide.

"Indeed." Malcolm said dryly, returning his handshake. Gregory was oblivious to the slight warning tone in his fellow armoury officer's voice.

"I made a few changes to the cannons whilst you were gone, hope you don't mind -" Gregory stopped suddenly, aware at last that Malcolm Reed's expression was one of pure murder and both Tucker and Archer were struggling – and failing – to keep their faces straight. "Uh – I'll be going, then."

"That would be a good idea." Malcolm said, his expression cold. "Can't keep the Vulcans waiting."

Trip grinned.

"Well, MG, I'll be seein' ya around -" He started, but Gregory surprised them all by cutting him off.

"I don't think so, actually, Trip. I've decided Starfleet isn't quite the career for me."

"Oh?" Archer said, his tone light. "And what would be?"

"Well, I was thinking of the navy, actually." Gregory said, as Malcolm Reed's eyebrows rose so much that they almost met his hairline. "I've applied to join a deep-sea expedition. Space just isn't my cup of tea. Well," and he grinned, "I really _had_ better be off. Captain," he said, ignoring Archer's outstretched hand and slapping him on the back, "thanks for the swell time. See ya!"

And with that, Lieutenant Malcolm Gregory exited the airlock, leaving the three officers standing in astonished silence.

"My God," said Malcolm, breaking the silence, "he really _is_ as bad as you said, isn't he? The navy's welcome to him."

There was another silence, but this time it was more grateful than awkward or astonished. Both Trip and Archer wanted to say something – perhaps how glad they were that this time, at least, there was a happy ending, even ask Malcolm how he _was_, emotionally as well as physically, whether he was scared – but they didn't. They knew their friend well enough to know that such questions and admissions so soon would only make him awkward. Or so they thought.

"I'm fine, by the way." Malcolm said, breaking the silence again. "Really. In every way." Trip stared at him. "What?"

"You're... talkative." Trip said at last, then looked him up and down. There was a new confidence in Reed's stern posture that had not been there before. "You're different." It wasn't a criticism.

Malcolm smiled. It was no longer the somewhat stiff smile of a man who was still unsure of what he was doing in life. It was the smile of a man who had faced all his demons and sent them running. Things had changed.

"Perhaps." He paused. Then, to Archer; "Sir, permission to go and check the cannons. If Gregory has done _anything_ to them I will personally hunt him down and fire him out of them."

Trip chuckled. Of course, some things _never_ changed.

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**A/N:** So there it is! Once again, thanks for reading, we hope you enjoyed it… and if you did, we'd love to hear from you!


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